


Six Months to Strawberry Time

by Mejhiren



Series: When the Mooniverse [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Copious Nods to Backstory, District 12, District Twelve, F/M, Hunting, Hunting Partners, Life in Twelve, Seamfolk, Sweetheart Ribbons, When the Mooniverse, gadge - Freeform, new year's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 66,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/pseuds/Mejhiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She tilts her head curiously at the sight of me, as though some exotic bird has alighted upon her doorstep. “The last time I saw your like in the Seam,” she remarks by way of greeting, “Jack Everdeen got a sweetheart, and a fiancée by week’s end.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“No,” she amends after a moment, frowning slightly. “I take that back. Your mama was the last town girl I saw here, all pink skirts and high-buttoned shoes, carrying a satchel full of pretty dresses and kerchiefs and soaps and a canary in a cage for Jack’s new bride, who ran away from home with no more than the clothes on her back.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She regards me thoughtfully. “I don’t see a canary or a packed case, Miss Undersee,” she says. “Have you come for a sweetheart?”</i>
</p><p>The day after New Year's, Madge Undersee goes to the Hawthornes' to talk business. A parallel fic to <b>When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun</b>, with references to previous chapters.</p><p>Title taken from Ch 3 of When the Moon:<br/><i>I silently curse Gale as colorfully as I know how. What was he doing at the mayor’s house anyway? It's a good six months to strawberry time, and he'd have nothing else to trade.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Partners

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/517005) by [Mejhiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/pseuds/Mejhiren). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for those of you who have been wondering what Gale and Madge are getting up to in the absence of Katniss and Peeta. ;) I originally anticipated this would be a oneshot but I'm leaving the door open for potential future installments, since there are a few other scenes I might like to write for them...

I borrowed a much-patched brown overcoat from Briony, the youngest of our Seam maids, along with a worn gray stocking cap that once belonged to her father. In exchange she gets the use of my best winter coat for the day, a dab of perfume at her wrists and throat, and a pouchful of coins to spend at the sweet-shop.

It may be a generous trade, but if all goes well I anticipate coming out strides ahead in this bargain.

I urged her to stop by the apothecary to see if Mrs. Everdeen is making phosphates yet and if so, to stay and enjoy as many as she likes. She’s more than earned a break with all the extra holiday preparations that the mayor’s mansion requires, and I want to allow myself plenty of time for negotiation.

I was determined to offer _something:_ a loaf of fresh bread, a tin of festive sweets, even a bucket of coal as a gesture of goodwill to strengthen my proposition, but Briony’s never shaken her head faster. _No gifts, miss,_ she warned. _You'll only make him angry._

Now I'm standing empty-handed in front of the Hawthornes’ sooty, ramshackle home and wondering if I’ve well and truly gone mad.

I press my lips together and give a firm rap with gloved knuckles, grounding my boots in the muddy gray snow to prevent them turning me smartly around and racing back to town before anyone sees me here.

Mrs. Hawthorne answers the door quicker than I expect. I've never actually met her before but I’ve seen her countless times in her capacity as a laundress, picking up and delivering orders from our neighbors. I'm told she was striking as a girl; every bit as beautiful as Alyssum Ebberfeld, only in that dark Seam fashion, and despite decades of poverty, hunger, and back-breaking work, she's still a very handsome woman. The sort any widower in town would set his cap for, if he had any sense.

She wears only white ribbons – albeit real satin ribbons – in her crown braid today, which means it’s time and past the widowers took notice.

She tilts her head curiously at the sight of me, as though some exotic bird has alighted upon her doorstep. “The last time I saw your like in the Seam,” she remarks by way of greeting, “Jack Everdeen got a sweetheart, and a fiancée by week’s end.

“No,” she amends after a moment, frowning slightly. “I take that back. Your mama was the last town girl I saw here, all pink skirts and high-buttoned shoes, carrying a satchel full of pretty dresses and kerchiefs and soaps and a canary in a cage for Jack’s new bride, who ran away from home with no more than the clothes on her back.”

She regards me thoughtfully. “I don’t see a canary or a packed case, Miss Undersee,” she says. “Have you come for a sweetheart?”

I blush without sense or reason. Her son is good-looking, I suppose, but he’s also gruff and cross and downright mean to me at every opportunity, which puts a substantial damper on his appeal. Gale Hawthorne is the very last boy I would ever consider for a sweetheart, let alone pursue as one.

Truth be told, I strongly debated making this trip today because it's the day after New Year's and I don't have a single ribbon in my hair. I don't have a sweetheart, of course; I’ve never had one, but people assume that the mayor's daughter must have half a dozen at the very least, so for the past several years I’ve taken the red ribbons from two of my family’s kissing boughs – the third, which hangs in the kitchen, gets parceled out among the staff – and woven them through my hair so I appear to have many sweethearts – or a single, very devoted one.

But this year I couldn’t do it, in part because beribboned blonde braids would stand out like a sore thumb in the Seam but also because I knew he’d see through it in a shot. Gale always says the most cutting things and even without being at school this year, he knows full well that no boys like me, let alone enough to gift me with sweetheart ribbons.

I often wonder why he condescends to sell wild strawberries to my father. We pay generously for them, of course, but he could find another buyer with ease and not have to deal with me in the process.

But then, maybe he _likes_ dealing with me. Likes having someone to mock on his trade rounds.

Gale makes me feel how plain and dull and worthless I am without even having to try, and I ask myself yet again why I’m doing this. I must be out of my mind.

“I’m here on business,” I tell Mrs. Hawthorne firmly. “I’d like a word with your eldest son, if he’s available.”

The day after New Year’s is a normal work day, when almost the entire adult population of the Seam is trudging the sooty snow-path back to the mines well before sun-up. But since Katniss left to live with Peeta in the woods, Gale doesn’t work in the mines anymore. He’s officially employed by the newly reopened apothecary, with special permission to leave the district under Peacekeeper guard to harvest things from the woods – in this season, primarily pine products and the odd bit of wintergreen – to rebuild Mrs. Everdeen’s medicine stores, but that’s only half the story, if the rumors are to be believed.

I’ve staked quite a lot in these rumors, but it’s glaringly apparent that Gale’s found an additional source of income – and a substantial one – just by looking at his mother. The deep green shawl knotted at her shoulder is fine new wool, soft and beautifully woven, as is her long plaid skirt. They’re not fashionable so much as practical in the bone-deep cold of the Seam, and there’s not a quantity of pine needles in the world that could buy either one.

“Business?” she echoes with more interest than surprise. “Yes, he seems to go in for that sort of thing now. He’s about to head in to work,” she says, “but I expect he could give you a few moments, or you could walk to town with him and discuss your ‘business’ on the way.”

I tip my head with a frown, trying to determine what she’s implying, but Mrs. Hawthorne is too frank to bother with innuendo. She simply doesn’t have a clue what business I could possibly have with her son, which is all the better.

“I don’t suppose he’d care to be seen walking with me,” I reply. “Let alone on the day after New Year’s.”

She considers this for a moment then reaches out with neither word nor warning to snatch off my borrowed stocking cap, and I gasp as my long pale hair tumbles out, unbraided and an absolute mess from sleep – I’d simply stuffed it all up inside the cap, having no intention of removing said garment till I was safely back at home – and bright as a flare in the dingy morning light.

“You might be surprised,” she says finally and hands me back the cap. “Gale!” she calls over her shoulder, giving the door behind her a hearty pound with one fist. “Someone to see you!”

I frantically jam my hair back up into the cap but I’m not quite quick enough – or, more likely, Gale was lying in wait on the other side of the door, because he’s on the stoop before his mother has finished speaking and thus gets a good withering look at my messy hair before it vanishes into the safe haven of worn gray wool once more.

My chances of securing this bargain just dropped a good fifty percent, if not more. Seam folk are proud people and trying to make a deal while looking like I literally just rolled out of bed would be a slight to any one of them, but Gale will be both offended and cruelly amused to have caught me at such a disadvantage. He’ll positively _delight_ in refusing my offer and hasten to remind me of why at every possible opportunity.

Except he doesn’t look offended or amused at all. Unlike his mother, he looks absolutely gobsmacked at the sight of me.

I’ve never seen Gale Hawthorne gobsmacked in his life. Before this moment I couldn’t even _envision_ Gale Hawthorne gobsmacked. He’s stunned and confused and utterly off his guard, even worse than that bizarre morning in November, just after the snowstorm, when he stood on our front porch and blurted out, _She’s leaving. She’s going to live with Peeta Mellark in the woods and I wouldn’t count on her coming to say goodbye._

No names – as if there were any other _she_ we had in common – no details, no explanation: just two sentences, all but panted in my face and then he turned, sprinted back down the steps, and vanished like he’d never been there at all.

“Business,” he says at last, a little hoarsely. “What business brings the mayor’s daughter to the Seam the day after New Year’s?”

Years of experience make me bristle, even though he hasn’t really said anything insulting yet. “I’d rather not discuss it in the street, if you don’t mind,” I reply, as evenly as I can manage, and Gale immediately rises to the bait, his hesitation and confusion a thing of the past.

“I see,” he says dryly. “Should we go to the apothecary and split a phosphate like a courting couple?”

Everything he says is so awful, _always_. I must be out of my mind.

Thankfully, his mother swings an arm across his ribs before I can, and in a decidedly more merciful fashion.

“If that's the impression you'd like to give the district,” I answer sweetly, albeit through gritted teeth, and catch something like a smile flickering across his mother’s lips.

“Go on,” Mrs. Hawthorne says heartily, giving him a shove in my direction. “More business for you means more money for us, and the little ones are growing out of their clothes faster than I can alter it. I doubt she means to make you late for ‘work.’”

The emphasis is the same as she used in regard to my “business,” and for some reason that makes me smile.

“And give your mama a kiss,” she reminds him, catching at his coat – a parka of gray wool, knee-length and fleece-lined, with a deep hood; the sort of winter gear you’d expect on a Capitol camera crew or a Head Peacekeeper, not a Seam boy, no matter what he does for a living – and tugging him back to dispense a dutiful, if cursory kiss on her cheek.

This seems unusually sentimental until you remember that Gale’s father died in a mine explosion, the same one that claimed Katniss’s father, and I wonder if Mrs. Hawthorne remembered to get her goodbye kiss that morning or if she’s been trying to make up for it ever since.

Gale walks past me, scowling fiercely, and starts down the street, leaving me no choice but to hurry to catch up with his angry, long-legged strides. “And it wouldn’t do you any harm to buy the girl a phosphate,” Mrs. Hawthorne calls after us. “Especially if this offer of hers is any good.”

“Is that what you want?” Gale asks cuttingly as I come up alongside him, but he slows his pace just the same. “A treat for walking all the way out to the Seam?”

“I’ve been here before,” I point out. “And I don’t want any ‘treat’ from you.”

He pulls up sharply to look at me, and it’s more unnerving than usual because he’s almost – _almost_ – curious. There’s a light deep in his gray eyes that I’ve never seen before, and I can’t begin to guess what it signifies. “But you _do_ want something,” he says; muses, really, and my nerve tears off like a cat on fire.

“Not this badly,” I decide and walk away, as quickly as I can manage, but it takes Gale less than three strides to catch up.

“No sweethearts this year,” he remarks, half a question, and I tug the gray knit down to my eyebrows, mortified. All at once I know why his mother pulled off my cap: to see if I was wearing any sweetheart ribbons in my hair, though what interest that could possibly be to her, I can’t imagine.

“And what business could that possibly be of yours?” I retort.

“Not one single ribbon for the mayor's pretty daughter?” he wonders, but without the barb I’ve come to expect beneath anything resembling a compliment.

“I didn't come here for insults,” I say, glaring at him on instinct. “I could've caught you at the Hob for that.”

I’m too conditioned to these encounters; too well-trained by his jibes to simply accept anything he says at face value. Thankfully, those hair-trigger instincts will be put to good use very soon, if I can convince him to accept my proposal.

“So what _do_ you want?” he asks.

This time it’s me who stops short. “I want to go into business,” I answer, raising my chin to regard him as levelly as I can, despite his superior height. “And for better or for worse, with you.”

“And just what sort of business would that be, Princess Undersee?” he taunts. “Are you planning to give your cousins at the sweet-shop a run for their money?” He punctuates this with a bark of mirthless laughter; once more the bitter, angry young man I know so painfully well.

Good. That’s exactly who I was prepared to deal with, and now I can finally spell out my proposition.

“I want to be your hunting partner,” I reply.

And for the second time in eighteen years, Gale Hawthorne is utterly gobsmacked. Only for a second, maybe, but it floods my chest and straightens my back with the hot golden light of triumph.

“Hunting's illegal,” he says, too casually, “punishable by death. I’ve got my mom and three little kids to look out for. I'd never be mixed up in something like that.”

It’s my turn to laugh sharply. “Don't let's lie to each other,” I retort. “How about I tell you what I know and you tell me if I miss anything?”

He stares at me for a long moment, frowning but not quite scowling, and the triumph-heat in my chest flares a little hotter. “Spin your tale, if you must,” he concedes. “And I’ll tell you if you get any of it right.”

“A week after Peeta took Katniss away with him, you quit working in the mines and were officially employed by Mrs. Everdeen as designated forager for the apothecary shop - through Peeta's influence, of course,” I begin. “Six days a week you go to the apothecary for your orders and then report to the Peacekeeper outpost at the eastern gate. You have a Peacekeeper _keeper_ , as it were, usually Darius, which is convenient because the two of you are friends, and have been for awhile. He's supposed to supervise you while you collect pine needles, mosses, bark and such for medicines.”

All of this is fact, of course, probably already marked down in the annals of District Twelve, as maintained at the Justice Building.

“But of course, that arrangement is far too promising to restrict to simple herb gathering,” I go on, lowering my voice, but not as much as I suspect he would like. “You forage, of course, because that’s your job, but you hunt and lay snares at the same time, and the Peacekeepers double your generous apothecary wages in return for a steady supply of fresh meat.”

I say that last with more conviction than I feel. It feels beyond absurd, especially saying the words aloud, but the information came from Rooba, who’s romanced a Peacekeeper or two over the years. _I’d gladly buy whatever he brings in, but I can’t match their prices,_ she said. _As long as he doesn’t make too deep a dent in my business, I’ve little enough to complain about. Jack Everdeen did the same in his day, if not quite so lucratively, and his mama in hers._

“The only problem is,” I observe, and waver ever so slightly, because this part is pure guessing on my part, if relatively informed: “you can't do both of those jobs at once. If you fall behind in your hunting Cray can make life difficult for you, and if you don't gather enough for Mrs. Everdeen, the district – Seam and Merchant alike – doesn’t get its much-needed medicines, and then the powers that be will start to wonder what you’re doing in the woods for all that time if it’s not the job they gave you _very_ special permission to do.

“You have a too-successful business, as it were,” I conclude. “And you need a partner.”

“And you reckon that should be you?” Gale deadpans without confirmation, denial, or even a flicker of reaction to a single word I’ve said.

“As you are so fond of pointing out, I serve no other purpose,” I remind him frankly. “I’m invisible, unneeded - and quite capable of disappearing in plain sight.”

He looks me up and down, taking in my appearance for the first time. It’s not a true disguise, nor did I intend it as such, but with my hair stuffed up into a cap and my torso wrapped in an patched old coat, I could pass as a Seam girl or even a boy. “I’m not as scrawny as your last partner,” I admit – _or rather,_ I add silently, _as she was before Peeta took her off to the woods to make love to her in every way but the physical one_ – “but I’m slim, agile, and sufficiently well-fed for stamina and endurance.”

“You sound like a Career volunteer,” he retorts. “I wouldn’t rate you past a six.”

“And how would you have ranked _her_ , the first time you met in the woods?” I counter. I know little enough about that day, save that Katniss was twelve and tiny as a hollow-boned wren, coming off those terrible months of near-starvation that followed her father’s death, but I can’t imagine this smug and angry boy would have regarded her with anything other than condescension and maybe pity.

“Leave her out of this,” he warns, but of course, neither of us can do that.

“I know you miss her,” I say, my voice softer than I intend. If Katniss had been here this New Year’s, there’s no doubt in my mind that Gale would have offered her a red ribbon – a rag-ribbon, of course, like the one Peeta Mellark wears around his wrist – and I know equally well how it would have ended: with Gale storming through the district the morning after New Year’s, in dire need of a new hunting partner. At least this way he was spared a little heartbreak and humiliation.

“You don’t know anything,” he whispers.

I bite my lip and reevaluate my tactic. The entire district – probably the entire country – knows that Gale fully expected to marry Katniss, though whether that was due to affection, practicality, or a mixture of the two is still up for some debate. “Fair enough,” I concede. “I won’t pretend to know – or care –“ I add bitingly – “about what’s in your heart. It’s nothing to do with me, and it has no bearing on your business or how good a partner I’d make.”

He regards me for a long silent while with eyes narrowed in an expression I can’t begin to decipher. “You’re very sure of yourself,” he says at last.

“I’m a Donner,” I answer quietly; my trump card, and the one I didn’t want to have to play. “Ask your mother if you don’t know what that means.”

He tips his head a little, almost – _almost_ – an acknowledgement, though of what I can’t begin to guess, and I realize he _does_ know – and therefore, that my family; my _mother’s_ family, has come up at the Hawthorne hearth at least once. Gale’s far too young to remember anything about my late aunt, of course, but his mother would recall her all too well.

“As I understand it, she did all right without a partner,” he says after a long moment. “It was after they split that things went south.”

I seize my fled nerve with both hands and cling to it for dear life. “And I’ll do just fine without you,” I lie boldly. “I don’t need any snarky Seam boy to help me out in the wild. I’m more patient than you’ll ever be, and I’d hazard I’m smarter too. I thought we’d do better if we joined forces,” I say with a boredom that requires all my strength to counterfeit, “but no matter. Maybe I’ll put you out of business –”

“Okay,” he says suddenly - calmly enough, but still it startles me to my bones. “I’ll take you to the woods on Sunday and we’ll see how it goes.”

My brows fly up as my heart clamors in both panic and elation, but I deftly pass it off as surprise at the intended delay. “Why wait?” I challenge, but it’s just to have something to say, to cover up the pounding of my heart. “I could go out with you right now and show you how indispensable I'll be.”

“I thought you didn’t want people talking,” he says dryly. “A Seam boy and a Merchant girl running off to the woods together the day after New Year’s would be more than a little...suggestive.”

“Of course,” I agree, blushing a little and hating myself for it. “That’s the last thing I want. Let’s not give anyone fodder for _that_ kind of gossip.”

“But…you realize they will, right?” he says carefully. “Talk, I mean. Even a single trip to the woods together would be enough to incite a few rumors and –”

“They’ll figure it out pretty quickly once they see us together in town,” I dismiss. “I mean, no one ever really thought that you and Katniss were a couple.”

He flinches sharply, as though I sliced a blade across his cheek, and I realize how incredibly stupid I’ve been not to see it all this while. I knew, like everyone else, that Gale liked Katniss and probably planned to marry her once her Reaping Days were done, but it’s more than that. He _loved_ her – probably still loves her – and I had the audacity to think I could step into her role as hunting partner like it was a simple business arrangement.

I couldn’t care less who Gale Hawthorne loves, but I refuse to spend my Sundays in the woods being constantly and cruelly compared to the bravest, most beautiful girl either of us has ever known. “You know what? Never mind,” I say. “Working with you would be a disaster. I knew that from the beginning.”

And feeling like a colossal idiot, I turn away and am about to sprint for town when my hat is snatched off again. I whirl back in fury, pocketknife in hand, to find Gale staring at me – at my messy bed-hair, really; my knife barely registers a flicker of interest – and wearing a pensive frown.

“No sweethearts this year,” he says again, as though it’s some sort of intricate riddle that he needs to solve before he’ll let me go.

“No sweethearts _ever_ ,” I retort and snatch back the cap with my free hand.

“But…the ribbons,” he puzzles. “You always wear ribbons after New Year’s.”

“I wear my own ribbons,” I confess in a small voice, all my fire suddenly gone. “It looks bad if the mayor’s daughter doesn’t have any admirers. I figured that out a long time ago.”

I pocket the little knife and turn for home again, tugging the cap down without bothering to tuck my hair up inside, and stop short at the sound of my name; the first he’s spoken it in the whole of our conversation.

“Madge, wait.”

I glower up at him, pretending that the sound of my name on his lips, said almost with respect, does nothing to me. “What now?” I ask. “You want to know how many boys I did or didn’t give ribbons to?”

His lips quirk in something that could almost pass as a smile. “I strongly suspect there were none,” he says lightly. “And…you were right. I _do_ miss her. When she left, it was like a part of me had been ripped away.”

I roll my eyes, not interested in his heartbreak over a relationship that was never going to happen, and he adds, “But not in the way you think. Yes, I…care about Katniss, and it killed me to just stand by while Peeta Mellark showered her family in comforts and carried her off to the woods in a fairytale sleigh painted with katniss blossoms to do who-knows-what –”

“Not what you think,” I interject. “I mean, I’m sure it’s heading there, but not for a good year or two. Katniss is such a cautious, wild thing and Peeta is so patient. He probably didn’t even make eye contact with her for the first week.”

This time it’s a true smile, albeit a crooked one. “That’s some small comfort, I guess,” he says. “I spent that first week envisioning all the ways she might attack him if he so much as tried to kiss her.

“When she left – the first day I went to the woods on my own – it was like my left arm had been torn off at the socket,” he explains quietly. “I could still do everything I’d done before, but half as quickly and half as well. As bad as the season had been, we had still, _always_ hunted together, and without Katniss I was incomplete, impaired; exposed, even. The foraging wasn’t so bad,” he concedes. “There’s little enough to harvest in this season, but once they figured out I could hunt at the same time…” He shakes his head. “It’s a fantastic arrangement, doing what I’ve done for years, only legally – mostly – and getting paid for it, but –”

“You need a partner,” I whisper.

“I need a partner,” he agrees, softer than he’s ever spoken to me before.

“I’m not Katniss,” I warn him. “I don’t want to be her substitute, and I don’t much care to be compared.”

He chuckles softly. “Somehow, I don’t expect that will be a problem,” he says, and holds out a hand.

I meet and shake it firmly. His grip is strong but not painfully so, as I half expected. “Sunday?” I wonder, releasing his hand.

He nods. “It’s technically my day off, so there won’t be orders to fill or extra eyes to observe us. If you’re up for it, I thought I’d lend you a bow and see what you’re capable of.”

I squeal inwardly at this news. I’ve always secretly wanted to learn how to shoot a bow, and if Katniss was still here this spring I would have begged her to take me to the woods. “J-Just a bow?” I squeak out, intending to tease, but I’m too excited at the news. “Wouldn’t an arrow or two come in handy?”

“You get one arrow for practice,” he replies, to my surprise. “If you want more than that, you'll need to make them yourself.”

“Is that the deal you offered Katniss?” I ask.

He grins broadly. “It’s the deal she offered _me_ ,” he says. “A scrawny little mousekin of a girl with a whole _armory_ of bows when all I had were snares, and _one arrow,_ she says. One arrow, and then you learn to make your own.”

I miss her so much that my heart aches. My stubborn, wild, beautiful friend, living half a world away with her besotted fairytale prince. “I always knew she was a tough trader,” I say with a smile.

I wonder if Gale’s ever thought about journeying through the woods to Peeta’s house to see her and decide it might be wiser not to ask.

“Must be where you picked it up,” he replies. For a split second he’s almost charming, and I’m reminded that however much he purportedly loved Katniss, there’s a myriad of other girls who’ve been on the receiving end of his kisses these past few years.

“Anyway, don’t you have school today?” he asks abruptly, and it’s such an ordinary question that I almost laugh.

“I cleared my schedule,” I reply. “In case you took some convincing.”

“Well, don’t do it again,” he says with surprising sharpness. “Any remotely unusual behavior will get you noticed, and I doubt my special district-leaving privileges will extend to my under-the-radar hunting partner.”

“Weekends and afternoons then?” I guess – I’d anticipated as much – and he nods.

“And for pity’s sake…” He rummages in the hip pocket of his parka and produces a single red ribbon, which he promptly hands to me. “Do something pretty with your hair,” he orders. “You’ll miss your first class, but if you come in late, flushed from the cold with a red ribbon in your hair, they’ll jump to a far less suspicious conclusion.”

“I hope you don’t expect a kiss for this,” I chide, turning the ribbon – my first ever from a boy – between my gloved fingers. “It’s a day late and that wasn’t the most romantic exchange.”

“It wasn’t an exchange at all,” he points out. “Unless you plan to give me something in return.”

I consider this. He’s entirely correct, and Seam folk take their trades very seriously indeed. A kiss would suffice, but the last thing in the world I want to do is kiss any part of Gale Hawthorne.

So I dig in my own hip pocket for my contingency plan: one of the red ribbons from my family's bough, carried along in the event that I lost my nerve and wanted _something_ indicative of a sweetheart to wear in my hair. “Tie that round your sleeve,” I tell him, proffering the ribbon. “I’ve probably made you late for work, but this way you’ll look like you had a good reason.”

He raises his brows as he takes the ribbon and I wonder how many others are already tied around his arm beneath the parka. “Fair enough,” he says, “but that’s not really something I can do one-handed.”

I roll my eyes. Touching Gale Hawthorne is only minutely better than being made to kiss him, but he’s right, yet again, and I come up to snug the ribbon around his left sleeve and loop its ends in a bow. I’ve never done this before and the act feels strangely weighty, even though neither of us is the other’s sweetheart.

“There,” I declare when I’m finished. “Partners.”

“Partners,” he agrees, regarding me with unexpectedly somber eyes as his opposite hand brushes the tangible pledge. “But only if you wear my ribbon to school today.”

I give a humorless snort. “Oh, I’ll wear it,” I assure him dryly. “By the time I’ve run home and changed, I’ll be too late to show up without a good excuse.”

“Till Sunday, then,” he says.

“Till Sunday,” I echo and turn away from him just before my face spills into the widest, most ridiculous smile I’ve worn in longer than I can remember. I allow myself one long moment to relish the victory, the anticipation, the sheer blinding happiness at finally embarking on my own fairy tale of sorts, then I sprint down the muddy street toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find that a lot of people miss the reference in _Catching Fire_ to Madge "dying to go into the woods" and Katniss teaching her how to shoot. I rediscovered it when I was researching some details about the mayor's mansion for WtM and knew that she absolutely **had** to become Gale's new hunting partner.


	2. The Counsel of Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and naturally, the one before) takes place the day after **Torchlight** , my Prim/Marko and (to a lesser extent) Alys/Janek New Year's fic. While you probably don't _need_ to have read Torchlight to follow what's happening here, the chapter will inevitably make more sense if you do, as it references Torchlight rather heavily in places. References are also made to several chapters of When the Moon, most especially Ch 15 (as posted here, i.e., the second half of Ch 14). Columbine Wilhearn appears in this chapter and it's somewhat assumed that the reader is aware of her from WtM.
> 
> I may end up writing a short Alys POV piece as, in working on this chapter, I was besieged by thoughts of how she might have spent the night following the events of Torchlight, and it may end up mattering later...

_As to_ her _, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term._  
_If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it._  
\- Charles Dickens _, A Christmas Carol_

Returning home is out of my way this morning and I could make a serviceable bun of my unkempt hair with just the ribbon to serve, but unfortunately, Gale was right. Any jarring change in my routine, such as going to and from school in an old patched overcoat and worn-out stocking cap, will raise more than a few eyebrows and draw exactly the sort of attention we want to avoid. I borrowed Seam clothes to blend into the crowd there, so my best bet this morning is to scurry into class looking pretty and flustered – maybe even flushed, if I can manage it – like a newly kissed sweetheart. Even the mayor’s solitary daughter could disappear into a crowd of blushing girls the day after New Year’s.

Only – I _do_ want to draw attention, _desperately_ , at least in some small way. My life is on the very cusp of irrevocable – _wonderful_ – change and I want to proclaim it in the only ways I can.

Ordinarily I’d dress for this day with a particular effort at prettiness – a festive skirt and tights, soft feminine sweater, earrings or even a locket – to impress all those imaginary sweethearts who gave me the ribbons I wear in my hair, but today I’m blazing with the urge to do something – _everything_ – different, and not simply because I have one almost-real red ribbon in my pocket that an actual living boy gave me and downright ordered me to wear.

It’s brutally, deliciously cold this morning: perfect weather to justify donning the most exciting pieces of clothing I own.

I burst through the front door, eagerly stamping the mud and coal-snow from my boots, and practically crash into Mrs. Everdeen as she hangs up her coat in the foyer.

I can’t help thinking of her as a colorless Katniss, despite the fact that she’s the original and my friend the copy. They share facial features to a striking degree, but where Katniss is all shadow and smoke and luminous dusky feathers, her mother is frost and sugar and porcelain, as though all her radiance washed out long ago, leaving behind a pale ghost of a beauty.

She comes to ease my mother’s crippling headaches with her aromatic brews and cool soothing fingers once or twice a week, sometimes more now that she lives so much closer. They were the best of friends as schoolgirls, and the weekly visits seem to do them both a world of good.

“Good morning,” I gush, sounding like a stupid lovesick fool in my giddiness and realizing I don’t care a jot. “Mom had a really good day yesterday, but the extra sweets and company were wearing her down at the end. She’ll be happy to see you.”

She nods silently, her brows dipping together in a vague, pensive frown, and I realize of a sudden that she looks utterly wrung out herself this morning. Her eyes are red and a little swollen with violet shadows beneath, as though she cried herself to sleep, and despite her immaculate grooming, she looks desperate to return to bed. It’s not unlikely that New Year’s would hit her hard, especially this first one she’s spent in her parents' house in over twenty years – only, of course, without her long-dead parents, her beloved husband, or her fierce beautiful daughter – but this isn’t the same lost look of crippling grief that she wore for all those months after her husband died. This is a peculiar combination of exhaustion and restlessness, or could it be frustration?

“I was once as you are now,” she says abruptly, her weary eyes grave and strangely keen.

I reply with a puzzled frown. Mrs. Everdeen sometimes drifts into strange memories – less so now that she’s back in the apothecary, warm and well-fed, with an expanding line of medicines to serve – and I can’t begin to guess what she’s referring to at this moment. Is it simply that I’m a fair-haired Merchant’s daughter in my teens? Or does she mistakenly believe that my elation this morning is in some way related to a sweetheart?

“Have a care, Madge,” she goes on cryptically. “The memories of youth fade with time but they never vanish entirely, and they will linger to haunt you for the rest of your life.”

This time a rejoinder flies to and from my lips, perhaps on Katniss’s behalf. “With small exception, Mrs. Everdeen,” I say, “I understood that your youth was a blissful one.”

“And do you suppose that makes the memories any less haunting?” she counters wryly.

My frown returns and deepens with confusion. Does she think I’m being hasty or impulsive in choosing a sweetheart? Perhaps she’s recalling her madcap decision to run off with Katniss’s beautiful father, a man of magic and music and a doomed lifespan, and urges me not to follow any such wild hare.

Or might she think I’ve fallen for a miner who’ll give me daughters to feed and then disappear in fire and darkness, leaving me alone in a foreign and frightening world?

I take Gale’s ribbon from my coat pocket and hold it out in my palm, as though that might serve as an explanation in itself. “It’s just one ribbon,” I tell her. “Not even a token to go along with.”

“Tokens are secondary to ribbons,” she replies, taking the ribbon briefly between two fingers and turning it this way and that, as though searching for some small clue imperceptible to me. “Incidental, especially when something more substantial, like a heart, is exchanged.”

“I gave my heart to no one,” I answer firmly, “nor will I.”

“That’s as may be,” she concedes, letting the ribbon flutter back into my palm. “But whose do you carry today?”

“I carry no one’s heart,” I insist, almost irrationally angry at the implication. “The giver didn’t even want a kiss.”

This intrigues her most of all. “No kiss?” she echoes. “What sort of boy gives a sweetheart ribbon and doesn’t ask for a kiss in return, unless he fears it will be refused him?”

“Perhaps a very proud boy,” I snap, irked by her persistence on what is completely and utterly a nonsense matter. “Who only cares about seeing his ribbon binding up the hair of the mayor’s daughter.”

“Yes,” she says to my surprise, her voice softening. “I think he might desire that most of all.”

With this peculiar proclamation and no word of departure, I duck past her and make my way upstairs. Mrs. Everdeen asks about my life now and again – how school is going, how I’m dealing without Katniss for company, and so forth – but this is the first time her questions have left me uncomfortable. It’s not so much that she’s prying – there’s nothing there for her to pry into, after all – but rather _predicting,_ like some dread seer with terrible, inescapable fates on her lips. She’s made me feel like I’m being courted without my knowledge and am doomed to repeat her life of poverty and grief and a lithe dark miner in my bed, and somehow it’s not clear whether she thinks this is a good or bad thing.

I could tell her, and in no uncertain terms, but it’s not worth the argument. I’m neither in love nor on the receiving end of it: I’ve simply succeeded in changing my life in a manner I could only dream of before this morning, and she’s mistaken my elation for newly kindled love.

An easy mistake to make, I suppose, on the morning after New Year’s, and I should probably count myself lucky if – _when_ – other observers make it as well. 

I slip into my bedroom and go directly to my top drawer, where I keep my most precious items of clothing – a collar and cuffs made of wild rabbit fur – wrapped neatly in soft linen.

From Katniss’s rabbits, of course. If a buyer doesn’t take the whole animal, pelt to bone, she offers the skins to the tailors from about October till March, and it took me till mid-January last year to pluck up the nerve to ask if she would sell me a few pieces of especially plush rabbit fur – my mother wanted fur slippers, I lied, and meant to place a special order at the shoe shop. I blushed like a beet when Katniss finally put the soft, supple skins in my hands and blushed harder still when she gave me back half of the ridiculous sum of money I tried to pay her for them, then I went down to Wilhearn’s on the Square and asked if they could make me a tall turtleneck-style collar and cuffs that I could wear with a winter dress – or almost anything with long sleeves and a high neckline, really. The clever tailor made them reversible to boot: lush silky gray-brown fur on one side and downy white belly fur on the other, and both make me feel like some magnificent wild queen in a winter tale.

Katniss very deliberately said nothing when I finally wore the cuffs and collar to school for a special assembly – maybe she thought I’d simply purchased the items directly from the tailors – but my sunburn-caliber blush surely gave me away, and it was all I could do not to hurl my arms around her and pepper her puzzled face with happy kisses.

If Katniss was a boy, I’m woefully certain I would have asked her to be my sweetheart at that very moment and equally certain that I would have been refused with an excruciating degree of candor. Thankfully, it’s hardly likely there’s a male version of Katniss running around that I don’t know about, so my heart and his pride are both perfectly safe.

When I can bring down my own rabbits, I’ll order a cap – or maybe a tall fur hat, like the one Head Peacekeeper Himmelrot wears in the old photograph at the Justice Building that makes him look like foreign prince in a cold country. Maybe I’ll wear it with a brooch to make it a bit more feminine, like the Snow Queen in one old tale or the White Witch in another, tempting selfish boys with exotic sweets in the dead of an endless winter.

I’m descended from candymakers, after all.

I chuckle at the very thought. Even were I the most ruthless, canniest huntress ever born – at once a rival to Katniss and her legendary granny Ashpet, vicious Johanna Mason, and the cruelest Career ever to darken an Arena – I could never be such a one. No, winter witch-queen Madge would sit alone in her sleigh or parlor, caressing soft, melancholy melodies from the bone-white keys of her piano.

 _Solitary as an oyster,_ murmurs a snatch of memory that doesn’t quite feel like mine, and I smile.

Houses remember things, much like people, and over the years this one has enjoyed access to art and music, even books that the average district citizen can only dream of – at least, until our overlords decide there’s danger and discord in this generic numbered sonata or that ode to a cloud and it quietly goes away.

Then again, something tells me that the Everdeens carry a wealth of stories and songs, the likes of which I can’t begin to imagine. We all know snatches of the ancient lovers’ song that gave rise to our sweetheart kisses – _your mouth is a scarlet ribbon_ – but Katniss’s father knew the whole thing word for word, as well, I suspect, as who wrote it and for whom.

 _I’ll have a bird,_ I decide. Not a canary like Aunt Maysi; a sad spot of pure sunlight, doomed to either a quick merciful death in the mines or a slow sad one in a cage, but a wild bird to be my friend in the woods. To greet me as soon as I’ve crossed the fence and ride along on my shoulder and share crumbs of my lunches, the way birds used to be with Katniss’s gentle, enchanting father. A merry chickadee or a shy curious dove would serve well, I think.

The white belly fur feels like down against my throat and wrists, and I pair the dusky outward face with a garment I haven’t worn in over a month: the dark purple sweater with a parade of small silver buttons that I gave Katniss to wear on her magical sleigh ride to Peeta’s house. I meant for her to keep it, of course, along with the corresponding leggings and undershirt, but the outfit was returned to me within days, softened with laundry soaps even finer than our own and saturated with the scents of pine smoke and spices and freshly baked bread.

I immediately wrapped the clothing in a pillowcase to trap the luscious fragrance for as long as possible and kept it in my top drawer with the fur cuffs and collar, unworn until today. Until today I almost didn’t dare to put it on, but now, having dipped a toe into a fairy tale of my own, I feel _almost_ worthy of these garments.

Of course, bread and spices and sweet pine fires are Katniss’s fairy tale where fur and evergreens and cold wild air are mine, but it feels nonetheless magical to slip into these scents and textures, as though I wear the blessing of my beloved friend and the gentle baker’s son who worships her.

Turning at last to my hair, I brush out the bed tangles quick and thoroughly and opt for a simple braid, wound and pinned into a slightly slipshod coil at the back of my head, and tie on Gale’s ribbon as a headband. While most girls weave their sweetheart ribbons into their braids, I don’t want to take the time that a crown braid or something equally eye-catching would require, and I want this ribbon – this true one, after a fashion – to be unmistakable. A bold statement blazing against my pale hair, not a flash here and there from a plait that only people close behind me can see 

Despite Gale’s assumption that I would miss my first class if I went home to fix my hair, I slip into Math just twenty minutes late, and with a complete clothing change to boot. _I’ve already exceeded expectations,_ I think cheekily as I whisper an apology to Miss Farlow, who raises her brows curiously but waves me in without a word of admonition.

I nip over to my seat, my cheeks warm and my gaze catching at ribbons rather than faces.

While most festivals – particularly our beloved Harvest Festival, for all that Twelve harvests nothing but coal and that haul doesn’t necessarily culminate in the autumn – favor those who can afford pretty gifts, fine clothes, and rich food, New Year’s is a great equalizer. Even the poorest boys and girls, both plain ones and handsome, wear ribbons today, and not all of them are colorful rags.

The notion of a secret sweetheart or admirer is a delicious one, and more than a few Merchant’s daughters, and sons, are indebted to their kissing boughs for the opportunity to slip a token of their admiration to a Seam resident they would never dare to speak to, let alone court or be courted by. The same goes for Seam kids with hearts above their station, though few are quite so brave about crossing the social divide, even in secret. A generous handful of my fair-haired classmates sport ribbons of cheap red gingham or scraps of red calico or even a strip of a red handkerchief this morning, indicative not merely of the admiration of a Seam resident but their acceptance of it, however temporarily, and I can’t help wondering how much Peeta Mellark’s blatant adoration for one of the most desperately poor girls in the district has helped to crumble that barrier.

He wasn’t the first to don a scrap of red cloth from the girl he loves, but he’s definitely the most public and persistent example.

I wonder if Katniss has recognized her handkerchief yet. If Peeta dared to offer his wild sweetheart a proper ribbon before the bough-burning last night, and if she wears just such a ribbon this morning.

I suspect he could twine every last hair on her head with red ribbons – with all _manner_ of tokens of love – and she’d _still_ overlook the implication. But it’s the safest outcome he could hope for, at least for now, and it gives him a tangible outlet for the love that’s surely groaning at the seams of his heart.

 _Please don’t take her to bed,_ I blurted outside the mercantile as he loaded fat parcels of Katniss-gifts into the back of his sleigh. _She’s terrified to have children and she wouldn’t take the contraceptive pills I offered. She doesn’t think you want her._

We’d never exchanged two words about Katniss before that moment and Peeta looked horrified and heartsick all at once. _I would never do anything of the kind,_ he said at last, so quietly; barely a whisper. _I’ve made a nest in the woods for a precious little bird, and if I’m very,_ very _lucky, one day she might choose to alight beside me or take bread from my hand._

As closely entwined as my household is with the Capitol and the Justice Building, I’ve grown adept at hearing things people can’t say, especially when there’s danger to themselves or a loved one. So I squeezed Peeta’s hand and walked away with a quick, murmured _thank you_ , understanding that he meant to lavish love on Katniss in every way but the intimate physical one and that, for the time being, my beautiful friend’s feral nuances might serve them both very well.

There’s no real protocol in regard to wearing your New Year’s ribbons, and a good quarter of the student body will wear white friendship ribbons today with just as much pride as those bearing red sweetheart ribbons – even if said white ribbons are merely scraps cut from a flour sack towel and bestowed by their siblings or parents. Younger students – those not quite old enough to claim or be claimed by a sweetheart – are likeliest to do so, but many students of both genders are delighted by either offering and enjoy the festive contrast of wearing both colors together.

In the seat ahead of me, Columbine Wilhearn’s wavy black hair is plaited into an elaborate crown, thick with red ribbons from hopeful Merchant boys and white ribbons from her circle of Merchant girlfriends. She glances over her shoulder – looking closer at the ribbon in my hair, I think – and I give her a small, not particularly genuine smile.

She’s so lovely it takes your breath away, and now with Katniss gone to the woods, she actually stands a chance at being the most beautiful girl in Twelve. And she knows it, which is as amusing as it is annoying.

Like Katniss, Columbine is an exquisite blend of Merchant and Seam traits, but there’s something _otherworldly_ about Katniss; something indefinable that nonetheless attracts. Katniss moves past boys like they’re a completely different species, and one that neither interests nor involves her in any way, while boys stumble and drop their books and trip over things, staring after her. At her wild elegance; like a pin-footed doe, fleet and sleek and silent, or her breathtaking fairy-queen face.

In contrast, Columbine is a comely goose girl, all pretty curves and winsome smiles, who wins doffed caps and sighs – and yes, plenty of hearts – but she’s heartily aware of that allure, which reduces it by half at the least.

“You look really pretty today, Madge,” she whispers, and it’s about as genuine as my smile.

But to the best of my recollection, she’s barely said so much as _hello_ to me outside of formal or festival encounters, so I duly mouth a _thank you_ in reply and diligently open my notebook to a fresh page to copy down this morning’s equations from the blackboard. When Columbine turns back to face the teacher – unsatisfied, or is it just my imagination? – I sneak my pencil up to the very top of the page instead and scribble the words:

 _Till Sunday_.

My mouth unfurls in a wide, ridiculous grin that I really ought to cover, and don’t.

None of this will matter whatsoever on Sunday. I’ll be fitted out in thick wool and boots and sturdy trousers, learning to track and snare and shoot.

I will become a _huntress._

Not a huntress like Katniss, wilder in nature than many of the creatures she hunts and relentless with her bow, but a huntress like in the very oldest tales: a solitary, fair-haired virgin attended by shimmering silver hounds and does, driving the moon across the sky each night as a luminous ivory chariot.

For a few hours each week I can escape the dark tomb of my house and the prison of the district and drink in the pure cold air of the wilderness beyond that made Katniss so strong and swift and beautiful. I would have attempted the fence myself half a dozen times already but I know there is both more and less to fear in the wilderness than our overlords have warned of and will be grateful for a bow at my back and, in time, in my own hands.

I haven’t thought too much about the killing, but I can manage it; I’m sure of it. I’ll be like Katniss, killing only for food and with merciful precision, and my game will fill the tables of honest working citizens, not Peacekeepers with a yen for wild meat.

The rest of the morning passes in a sort of giddy dream, my fingers straying irresistibly to the ribbon in my hair whenever they aren’t needed to propel a pencil, and it feels like everyone around me _knows,_ somehow. Not the full extent of it, of course; rather, it’s almost as if they can smell it on me. Coal dust and pine sap, with a faint whiff of animal musk and fine, snow-damped gray wool beneath.

I feel headily, irrationally like Katniss’s mother as a girl: the beautiful apothecary’s daughter, with the handsomest men from both sides of town offering their hearts – though no one’s done anything of the kind in my case, nor is likely to. I feel a bit like Katniss too: a silent wild thing, moving among these children from whom she’s so _other_ and not paying a speck of heed to any one of them. 

I’m sitting at lunch, alone as always, nibbling absently on a thick slice of traditional Donner fruitcake – molasses-heavy and gingerbread-like, with tiny sugar plums baked in – when Columbine deposits herself in the chair opposite mine with an eager, enchanting smile and stretches out her hands, as though she expects me to take hold of them and girlishly gush my news.

“Well?” she prompts when I do neither, and wiggles her fingers impatiently against the tabletop. “New sweetheart put the color in your cheeks?” she wonders impishly, nodding at my lone ribbon, and I realize I have to make a choice. If I say no, the whole morning charade – the pretend sweetheart ribbon from the pretend tryst that made me late for class – will be revealed as a lie, raising suspicion as to what I was really up to, especially if anyone happened to spot me in the Seam.

But I’m not a deft liar, so if I tell her yes, I’ll surely be found out before day’s end and look a complete fool. Pretending to have many sweethearts was child’s play – no one questions when you wear five ribbons, especially if you manage to make each one look slightly different – but convincingly carrying off that I have one real and proper sweetheart might well be beyond me.

And what if someone witnessed my encounter with Gale this morning: trading ribbons, murmurs, and a meaningful handshake? What if someone actually thinks _he’s_ my mysterious sweetheart?

 _A secret admirer_ , I decide, and respond accordingly. “I haven’t the foggiest,” I invent cheerfully, and still don’t accept the invitation of her outstretched palms. “Gale Hawthorne passed it along this morning – a little late, but nonetheless intriguing, don’t you think?”

Something in this – my rebuff of her gesture or maybe my reply – causes her mouth to tighten in chagrin, which amuses me more than it should, and she draws back her hands to fold them together and lean over conspiratorially. I suppose I should be flattered that she’s trying this hard, but I don’t want another Seam best friend, however briefly, and I quite want to return to my fruitcake and huntressing daydreams.

“His little brother, I bet,” she proposes with a grin, but her eyes are greedy – no, _hungry_ , and desperately so.

I barely know anything about Columbine aside from the obvious, but she’s between Gale and me in age, and more than once she was at the head of the girl-gaggle, all whispers and languid gazes as he passed them in the hall. Does she have some misguided suspicion that the tall dark boy her Merchant eyes couldn’t get enough of is my mysterious, nonexistent sweetheart?

I laugh shortly, though at which bit I can’t be sure. “Gale would never buy a fine ribbon for his brother to give to an older girl, let alone through an intermediary,” I tell her. “He’d insist Rory earn the ribbon himself, if he wanted it so badly, and come home with either another ribbon or a kiss in payment.”

Her eyes narrow, though she retains a neat, careful mask of her grin. “Since when do you know Gale so well?” she asks, and I realize she’s more right than she knows. Before this moment I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to sibling dynamics in the Hawthorne household, though my guess sounds pretty accurate even to my own ears, and until this moment I didn’t realize I knew Gale’s brother’s name.

Rory’s a miniature Gale, weedy and too long-limbed for his torso, which is scrambling to catch up. There’s another boy, I think, a year or so younger, who I can’t quite bring to mind, and a little snip of a sister who tagged along with their mother on her laundry rounds until she was old enough to start school. _Posy,_ I recall with a smile. _A little flower-fairy of the wayside._

“We have a mutual best friend,” I remind Columbine crisply, never mind all those details may as well have come from the moon, as I can’t recall Katniss talking about Gale once, let alone his siblings. “Who’s currently in the woods, wrapped in furs and riding in a pony-drawn sleigh, if you haven’t heard,” I add with pleasant relish.

She dismisses or concedes this – I can’t quite tell which – with a nonchalant hum. “You must be lonely since she left,” she observes with what feels like pity, if genuine enough. “You were always alone before the pair of you landed together at lunch and here you are, alone again.”

“I’m all right,” I answer, a half-lie. I miss Katniss so much sometimes it feels like my heart is literally cracked down the middle, but she’s precisely where she should be, and I know it’s up to me to move on.

“Come sit with us,” she says impulsively, glancing over toward her table of pretty blonde heads, both male and female, and she leans forward to squeeze my hand. “Please, Madge,” she entreats, but the hungry look has replaced her pity, and I know she’s not inviting me over to be friends, whatever her lips say.

“I’m all right,” I say again, a little more firmly, and let my eyes flicker deliberately to the uninvited hand covering mine. “But thanks just the same, Columbine.”

A thin line forms between her brows – clearly, she never expected to be refused, let alone rebuffed – and the reason for her overture becomes suddenly, starkly apparent.

Well, there’s nothing I could tell her about Gale anyway, even if I wanted to.

“Fair enough,” she replies, painting a quick veneer of courtesy over her clearly miffed state. “You know where we are if you change your mind. We can always make room for the mayor’s daughter,” she adds with a pretty crinkle of her eyes, and I have to bite back a belly laugh.

Aside from Katniss, no one was the least bit interested in said mayor’s daughter until she wore a ribbon that may or may not have come from the most desirable boy in the Seam.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her sweetly and return my attention to my far-more-interesting fruitcake.

She glides back to her table in a weak imitation of Katniss’s boneless grace, or maybe she just likes showing her curves to advantage with her gait, and I catch a short bark of laughter from somewhere off to my left.

Luka Mellark, also sitting alone on this unlikeliest of days, flashes me a grin, both merry and gratified, before turning back to his notebook, and I suspect Columbine will only resent me the more.

Since Gale took his looming broodiness elsewhere, Luka's taut backside and wicked eyebrows are the uncontested most pined-over commodities in the school. A lean Mellark – neither towering and brawny nor modest and stocky – with a prettier face than most of the girls in Twelve appears to be a “cake and eat it too” prospect, pun unintended or otherwise.

Today he is not only alone but, shockingly, ribbonless, his striking face bent intently over some project or other.

I wonder if Columbine stopped at his table before mine and giggle in spite of myself. For the reigning beauty of the district – complete with resplendent crown of beribboned braids – she’s not having a very successful day-after-New-Year’s.

Feeling delightfully bold, I scoop up the remains of my lunch and take myself directly to Luka’s table. “And a very happy New Year to you,” I declare as I seat myself, leaving one chair between us, both out of courtesy and a lack of nerve, and he quickly closes the notebook.

“Likewise,” he replies, looking up with a knee-melting grin – whatever I interrupted him at, he’s keen to hide it but not displeased by the unexpected company – and he passes me a crisp sugar-cookie rabbit, exquisitely iced. “From our friends in the woods,” he says. “Who, I suspect, had a far merrier holiday than any of us.”

He says this with gentle humor and not even a ghost of envy, and I like him all the more for finding true joy in his brother’s good fortune. “Red ribbons would be so lovely against black feathers,” I remark with deliberate nonchalance, nibbling at the delicate ears of my cookie. “Do you suppose he managed to band his little bird, or will it take another season?”

Luka’s grin widens to round the apples of his cheeks like a child’s. “If not, he’s given her plenty of nesting material for the spring,” he replies with equal measures of mirth and care, and I realize he knows about not-saying-things too. We’ve barely exchanged ten words before this moment and we just had a complete veiled exchange where we both understood each other perfectly.

“No sweethearts this year?” I puzzle, tipping my head toward his barren sweater-sleeve. We’re both anomalies today. Luka’s upper arm is usually a banner of red satin bows and trailing ribbon tails the day after New Year’s, courtesy of a schoolful of giggling admirers, and of course, I always sport about five ribbons in my hair, pretending to be sought after in turn, if not quite so desperately.

“Not here,” he says simply. “Though I could stock a haberdashery with the offerings from this year’s hopefuls.”

He says it with humor, not spite, but I’m more curious about the first part of his response. Luka’s never wanted for sweethearts but to my knowledge, despite his merry, even flirtatious manner, he’s never particularly embraced, let alone returned, any of the proffered affection.

“Still, it must be nice to have so many admirers,” I venture.

“Not when you’re not interested in any of them,” he says quietly. “You think it’ll be fun in the meantime – the little stuff; sweetheart ribbons and tokens and flirting – and then you see the real thing unfold against all odds and you can’t bear to think of settling for anything else.”

It’s a brave, beautiful statement and I make one in turn: easing the notebook out from under his arm – and encountering no resistance – I open to the page still marked by his fingers. My curious gaze meets a sketch of dark eyes, large and doelike and deadly all at once, and I start as though I’ve been struck. Unlike probably anyone else in Twelve, I know immediately who this is, just from her eyes.

And he’s right, she’s not here.

I let the pages fall closed over his hand once more and forbid myself to express either pity or defeat, not on this of all days. “Katniss left her sister to go and live with your brother in the woods,” I say at last. “Crazy things don’t seem so impossible right now.”

“Crazy indeed,” he answers softly, tracing the cover of his notebook with a fingertip, almost lovingly, and I wonder how in the world the pretty, flirtatious Mellark brother fell for such a disparate, impossible sweetheart.

And then I think about his mother and the fact that he’s always been her favorite, and there’s no confusion about it whatsoever. He’ll be the most wonderful thing that ever happens to that girl, if she doesn’t kill him in the attempt.

And of course, if he ever manages to meet her.

“I met her once,” he says, softer still, and runs his thumb and forefinger tenderly along the notebook’s edge, as though it’s a dark plait with a sweetheart ribbon woven through. “Five years ago,” he murmurs, as much to the notebook as to me. “Went about as well as you’d expect, but that didn’t change anything.”

He looks up at me brightly, as though the cryptic – no, unmistakable but impossible – revelation took place only in his head. “Speaking of crazy: Gale finally get brave?” he wonders, nodding at my ribbon with a playful waggle of his dark brows.

“Not the way you’re thinking,” I reply, biting back a foolish smile. “We had a little business meeting this morning, is all.”

“Business?” he echoes curiously, and his confusion abruptly clears, supplanted by an awed sort of esteem that makes me blush to my bones. “In that case: Dad has a reputation for buying squirrel, but it was more to do with the merchant than the wares, if you catch my drift,” he says lightly. “I don’t think he’d turn one down, but don’t feel like you’ve got to go out of your way to bring down the little buggers, let alone ping them through the eye.”

I suddenly, entirely adore Luka Mellark and it’s all I can do not to hug him about the neck and plant a kiss in his thick tawny hair. “Good to know,” I reply, as professionally as I can manage. “He may be frying up pine bark for a few weeks while I learn how to handle a bow.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” remarks a voice from above us and Jude Tolliver – the only person who could overhear my last remark and not make it the worse for me, though I’ve no doubt he’ll still find a merry way to haunt me with it – slides cheerfully into the chair between us.

Luka’s cousin, classmate, and regular companion, Jude is a sort of counterpart to Columbine, but in reverse. He’s Rooba’s youngest son by her third and last – thus far – husband: a widowed young miner that she scooped up at the Hob and took straight home to her bed, where he died – blissfully, everyone supposes – a few years later, purportedly of too much good food and hearty loving. The butcher’s three older children are all ruddy, solid stock, sired by a mélange of Merchant fathers and strongly favoring their mother, and then there’s Jude with a mop of dusty blond hair over a lean, delicate-featured Seam face, complete with startling gray eyes.

Jude’s a trifle quieter than his boisterous kin but he’s still quick with a joke or a gentle prank, and there are days when his mere existence makes me smile. He moves between town and Seam even easier than Columbine and is well-liked on both ends of society.

“That beau has been waiting longer than you know,” he informs me gravely, but his eyes are mirthful. “I hope you gave him a kiss for that ribbon, as it cost him at least two bowls of hot stew.”

I raise a brow at him, mortified by his implication but sufficiently prepared for it to give a witty response. He’s Rooba’s child, after all – maybe her favorite, if rumor has the right of it – so you have to expect her words to come out of his mouth every now and again. “He’s getting a little soft around the middle, what with all the extra meat and sugar he’s bringing home these days,” I reply, equally somber. “Extra pounds mean heavier steps and lost game, and a few missed bowls of Sae’s stew will deprive him little enough.”

Jude laughs heartily and slaps a hand on the table. “I knew he’d met his match,” he crows. “I can’t wait for you to show him up and bring him down a peg or four.”

I raise a hand to hush him, feeling eyes shift curiously toward us from throughout the lunchroom and blushing fiercely in consequence. “No promises,” I warn, “but you know I’ll do my best.”

“I’d kiss you myself if I didn’t think I’d be sorry later,” he teases. “So let’s settle for a cavalier gesture.”

He catches my uplifted hand and brings the knuckles to his lips. “Lady Madeline,” he declares, “topple that insufferable glower-pot from his gloomy pedestal by any means necessary and you shall have my undying gratitude.”

“Toppling might be beyond my abilities,” I hedge, but my face feels as bright as the ribbons on Jude’s sleeve and I can’t seem to stop smiling. “But I can certainly shake him a little.”

“You underestimate yourself, you know,” Luka chimes in, but unlike his cousin, his face and tone are entirely serious. “You’ve done as much already, without trying.”

“She has at that,” Jude concedes, glancing between my hand and his cousin’s face. “I look forward to your partnership with bated breath, Miss Undersee – and I’m happy to throw in a free kiss with every trade,” he adds with a wink. “I know my mama’s a miserly thing.”

“ _You’ll_ be the one on the rough end of the deal if you go kissing her on a trading run,” Luka interjects, tugging my hand free of Jude’s with a laugh. “Now let the poor thing go before the prettiest _Merchant_ girl decides one of us is Madge’s mysterious sweetheart and corners her for details.”

“Madge _is_ the prettiest Merchant girl,” Jude replies frankly and my cheeks ignite in a furious rush of warm blood. It’s pure fiction, of course, but that doesn’t mean hearing it leaves me unaffected.

“Can’t we keep her a little longer?” he entreats his cousin. “She’s got the prettiest blush I’ve ever seen, and she kept it under wraps until today." 

“You keep her any longer and _your_ sweetheart will be hauling you out to the woodshed, and not for kisses,” Luka teases. “Not to mention what _her_ sweetheart will do when he finds out about the hand-kissing and all the blushes you stole.”

Jude bows his head gracefully, like a courtly sprite – a fairy mischief-maker, conceding good-naturedly to reprimand – and pushes back his chair to rise, not to leave the table himself but as a formal acknowledgement of my own departure, almost unseen among the males of Twelve. “Then I bid you good day, Mistress Madeline,” he declares. “I hope to see your lovely blushes on Sunday afternoon, even if all you bear is pine bark. My miserly mama needs sweet wood for the smoker too, you know,” he adds with a playful wink, “and if she refuses to pay you, I’m sure I can come up with some sort of compensation.”

“It’s not compensation if she breaks your arm afterward,” Luka reminds him dryly. “And that’s if her partner doesn’t see to you first.”

“The glower-pot,” Jude grumbles melodramatically, but his eyes are dancing. “See what you can do about that, will you, Madge?”

“I’ll take him down a peg at the earliest opportunity, but I can’t promise to sweeten his temper,” I warn, scooping up my lunch as I get up from my chair. “I suspect that’s beyond the powers of man or beast.”

“Mayor’s daughter should stand a fair chance, then,” Jude replies without skipping a beat, grinning up at me, and I shake my head as I depart to finish my lunch in a quiet corner.

Luka’s prediction that our lunchtime conversation would draw interest and theories is quickly proven accurate. No one is as forthright about it as Columbine, thankfully, but I catch plenty of whispers and murmurs as I pass through the remainder of the school day and it takes little effort to keep my head held high. I’m inordinately proud of my success with Gale this morning and suspicions of mysterious, desirable sweethearts have provided the perfect cover for my elation. The fact that both Luka and his cousin assumed my ribbon came from Gale is a little troubling, as neither of them is likely to have witnessed any encounter between us, let alone this morning’s, but they both accepted my role as Gale’s new hunting partner without question and with, unless I’m much mistaken, a certain degree of amusement.

I may have won myself a new job – well, a trial, at least – by frank speech and sheer will, but I know beyond a doubt that I won’t regularly enjoy that degree of success with Gale in the future, at least not in the way Jude seems to think. But shaking his pride is a worthy challenge indeed, especially if it’s achieved by a demonstration of my own skills.

I’ve got a long way to go, of course. I’m not half so fearless as I pretended this morning and I’m definitely handicapped by my Merchant upbringing in certain ways, but everything I said about myself this morning was true. _I’m invisible. Unneeded. Quite capable of disappearing in plain sight._ As the mayor’s daughter, I’m expected to be little more than unobtrusive, a quality that will serve me very well indeed in both the Seam and the woods, and having the resources to stay warm, well-fed, and in good health are definite assets, however Gale might mock me for it. I’m patient, intelligent, quiet, and careful, both in speech and action. Traversing the wild woods will be a walk in the Meadow compared to our Saturday dinners with the Head Peacekeeper, his present lieutenant, and the Capitol staff from the Justice Building.

I’ve scarcely stepped outside the school doors and drawn my first greedy breath of fresh, frigid air when Prim appears alongside me and curls an arm around mine. While she attends the secondary school with me now, we share no classes nor even a lunch period, so as much as I try to keep an eye out for her, the after-school walk is typically the only time I even see her. We live much closer now, of course, so we often walk home together or even do a little shopping.

Delly Cartwright is officially Prim’s keeper now that Katniss is enthroned in Peeta’s luxurious woodland shrine, and while a sensible choice – Delly being Peeta’s cousin via Rooba’s first husband and an unrelentingly good, sweet, and generous girl to boot – she’s like a plump and amiable barnyard duck, or maybe one of her mother’s silly brown hens, trying hopelessly to keep up with a sleek magnificent swallow, darting and diving and always seven leagues ahead. 

Prim adores Delly – they’re quite similar creatures at heart – but her mind is too quick and clever to linger at Delly’s level of cheerful enthusiasm in the day-to-day, especially now that she’s emerged from the shadow of her fiercely beautiful protector. Prim mastered soap-making in about an hour, simply from reading her grandmother Ebberfeld’s sparse handwritten notes, and she’s positively chomping at the bit for Lady to give birth so she can try goat’s milk in her recipes for a richer, more moisturizing bar.

“Thank you so much for the sugar plums,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze and leaning her head against my shoulder in affectionate semblance of a hug. “I haven’t dared to try them yet, but I’ve resolved to cut each one into quarters and stretch them out for a week.”

“And thank you for the beautiful soap,” I reply, squeezing her arm in turn and resting my head against hers. “I washed up with it before bed last night, but I’m torn. I’d love to tuck it in with my sweaters to make them smell of oats and lavender and cream, like the apothecary kitchen, but I want to _use_ it too.”

“Round Two is almost cured,” she assures me. “You’ll have a bar for your sweater drawer next week.”

She’s proving to be a shrewd businesswoman already, despite her youth. While her initial batch of soaps – a useful test-run, distributed as New Year’s gifts – was curing in its molds, she dug through her grandparents’ notebooks for recipes for facial creams and washes. One of her favorite tales as a child featured dairymaids splashing their faces with cream from their pails for a radiant complexion; something she’d been desperate to try with fresh goat’s milk but never been able to, said milk being such a vital source of income for their family. But now that she and her mother are provided for by Peeta and the apothecary business is booming to boot, Prim’s exploring other ways to make use of that commodity that might be of interest to the people of the district.

I love her to bits, and not merely because she’s my beloved friend’s little sister.

Prim is made up of the very best and sweetest parts of her parents: her father’s elfin features and playful manner, her mother’s wintry coloring and healer’s wisdom and, thanks to a steady supply of nourishing food, a figure budding like a midwinter blossom: early, subtle and stunning.

It was both endearing and ridiculous for Jude to call me the prettiest Merchant girl when the true possessor of the title is as obvious as she is oblivious – not unlike her sister – and today she’s utterly incandescent. Glowing like an ember, somewhere deep and hidden, and it doesn’t take a keen observer to determine why.

She’s left off her merry rose-patterned stocking cap on this coldest of days to display her pale crown braid, neatly plaited, with a red ribbon woven vibrantly at its heart.

Primrose Everdeen has a sweetheart.

 _Rory Hawthorne,_ I conjecture humorously, but she’s wildly out of his league, even if he wasn’t a year younger, still back at the primary school, and securely entrenched in Seam life.

No, only the wisest, bravest, most devoted lover would dare to offer a sweetheart ribbon to this stunning woman-child with her father’s fairy features and her mother’s pale beauty, and when we arrive at the bakery my oversight is rapidly, startlingly rectified.

The shopfront is humming with afternoon traffic: school kids eyeing the displays for a special after-holiday treat and Merchants and better-off Seamfolk buying bread on their way home from work. Mrs. Mellark is behind the counter, parceling rolls for Rooba and her daughter, and Marko, thickly bearded from cheekbones to chin, looks up from the register as though there is a string that tugs at him whenever Prim comes near, and grins at us through his perpetual blush.

He’s glowing today too, which I surmise is something to do with the red ribbon tied above one rolled-up sleeve.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he calls with a little salute. “How was your lunch?”

“I require seconds,” she informs him sternly, producing two empty jam jars from her school bag. “You're a cruel lover, Marko Mellark, with your tiny tastes of heaven.”

“I’d hoped the shortbread crust would make it more substantial,” he mourns, playfully crestfallen, as he takes both jars in one massive hand. “No good?” he wonders.

“ _Too_ good,” she answers severely. “Bring me shortbread and mince, and quickly.”

His generous mouth sprawls in a foolish grin and he disappears into the back, and I look at Prim properly for the first time today. It’s no secret that she’s especially fond of Marko or that he bakes her two miniature pies to take for her school lunch every single day, said fondness being quite openly mutual. But this is something altogether different. Something as intense and _real_ as it is playful.

Before I’ve quite sorted it out, Marko returns from the kitchen with two golden shortbread squares on scraps of waxed paper, both topped with a thick layer of fragrantly spiced mincemeat and one with a hearty dollop of whipped cream as well.

“This one's for the lady,” he teases, handing the specially garnished square to me with a wink even as Prim reaches out for it. “I heard a rumor you don't like the creamery,” he explains, grandly handing her the second, creamless shortbread, “and yet you won't bring me any goat's milk for another two months. What’s a baker to do?”

“Learn to bake without milk,” she replies, and there’s something edged but not angry in her words. “We managed it every day in the Seam.”

The love – no, adoration; even _passion_ – between them is palpable. It pulses and crackles over the din of the bakery like a thunderstorm at the very core of the Earth.

She’s not yet thirteen and he’s twenty-one, and they're bantering like lovers still warm from their bed. Their briefest interactions are positively _teeming_ with love, and I’m not the only one who sees it.

Mrs. Mellark glances over from her parceling with an expression that's more troubled than angry and not, I know somehow, because her son is in love with a child. Who that child is, doubtless, has something to do with it, and I’m sure the logistics are a little disconcerting, but what I see clearest in her eyes is longing. She didn’t have a courtship, which even the poorest Seam girls have the right to expect: she loved a boy with a shattered heart and somehow or other got pregnant by him, so he married her. She never had sweetheart ribbons and tokens and kisses in the starry cold of New Year’s night.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s ever been loved by anyone but her sister.

Mrs. Mellark’s strawberry-blonde hair is tied back with a single white ribbon, doubtless from her favorite son, while Rooba, in contrast, wears a white knit cap with numerous red ribbons looped through the hem, like so many festive streamers. She reminds me of Moppet and Mittens in our funny old picture book of animal tales, hanging up the tails of all the rats they’ve caught. _Dozens and dozens of them._

Rooba’s not particularly pretty, especially now in middle age, with her short, curvy figure settling into stout, robust stockiness, but there’s something about her that lures men like a honeypot, and it’s not simply that she’s so easy to get – or at least, used to be. She’s brazen and blunt, sometimes to a mortifying degree, which I suppose might be refreshing to some, and her face has retained much of its youthful charm, but it’s mystifying, how such a woman still turns the heads of half the men she passes without saying a word. 

“Take it easy on this overgrown fool,” she chides Prim mirthfully, drifting over to examine her shortbread square with a grin. “He's new to all of this, and he’s bound to be a little clumsy at it.”

She turns to me then, her grin broadening. “I've been told to watch my step around you, Miss Undersee,” she remarks. “I don’t haggle but neither, it appears, do you. I like a girl who isn't afraid to ask for what she wants,” she says lustily and brings a hand to my chin, tipping it this way and that, as though taking the measure of me. “Even when she doesn't realize what it is,” she adds in a softer tone, and releases me.

I take an involuntary step backward, startled and perplexed and strangely, deeply shaken, but before the butcher can press me with more direct, discomfiting remarks, Mrs. Mellark calls her back to cash out her order. “I’m going outside,” I tell Prim, suddenly desperate for the safety and sanity of crisp open air. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

“I’ll come with,” she says without hesitation. “See you tonight?” she adds to Marko.

“Always,” he replies.

There’s no teasing whatsoever in this exchange but the love in it is almost overwhelming, and I wonder if I really want to know what these two meet up for every night. I doubt it’s anything untoward, especially as they just spoke of it within earshot of his mother, Rooba, and the rest of the bakery customers, but it’s clearly a lover’s ritual of some kind.

Curiosity gets the better of me as Prim and I commandeer a bench in the Square to finish our shortbread. “What are you doing with Marko tonight?” I ask, as nonchalantly as I can manage. 

“Sharing hot chocolate at our respective kitchen windows after dinner,” she replies simply, without shyness or shame. “It started as a bit of joke but it’s become the best part of my day.”

“Better than mini pies and after-school shortbread?” I wonder, and hate myself for the suggestion in my tone.

She smiles, either unaware of or undisturbed by the implication. “I’ll gladly fill in the gaps in my daily routine for you,” she says. “Or, you can tell me what Rooba was talking about that shook you so badly.”

She leans back against the arm of the bench, awaiting my response, and I’m struck by how grown-up she seems today. It’s not just the sweetheart ribbon in her hair, nor the fact that it was given to her by a man almost twice her age, who appears quite content to share windowside hot chocolate and after-school banter until she’s old enough for a proper courtship.

Never mind I can’t stop wondering if they exchanged any sort of kisses along with their respective ribbons last night.

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” she adds quietly, leaning forward to brush my gloved hand with hers. “Even the ones that people don’t tell me.”

It’s as though she came into the adult world overnight and fully comprehended all of its workings.

I study the tiny embroidered birds on the lapels of her beautiful winter coat and wonder if Marko had a hand in that as well. Peeta purchased it, of course, but perceptive as he is, he was up to his eyes in Katniss-preparations that day, and Marko and his father made their deliveries first thing in the morning. There was literally no time for Peeta to pore over coats, but from the dye to the detailed cuffs, this is unmistakably the perfect coat for Prim – and therefore, was probably chosen by her unlikely, impossible admirer.

“I’m going to be Gale’s new hunting partner,” I answer at last. Not eagerly, nor with embarrassment or uncertainty, but I feel a great weight drop from my chest as the words leave my lips.

After all, this is the only person whose approval truly matters.

It’s belatedly occurred to me that I should have sought Prim’s permission before speaking to Gale, taking over Katniss’s role as I am, or maybe I should apologize for not having done so – but she only smiles at me once more, unbothered and utterly unsurprised. “Of course you are,” she says. “You've had the woods in your eyes for a while now. If Katniss hadn't left with Peeta, she could have taken you out herself,” she observes. “The pair of you could have hunted and foraged together, and never mind Gale Hawthorne."

“There's a lovely thought,” I chuckle dryly. “And really, I may not even pass muster. I’m going out with him on Sunday – on trial, I think. It may not last any longer than that.”

Prim gives a short, strange laugh. “He'll never give you up,” she assures me.

“Is he _that_ desperate?” I wonder, nonplussed.

She hesitates a moment. “Not in the way you think,” she replies. “But yes, I think he is. Just...maybe you should tell him,” she suggests, “before things get too far along.”

I shake my head, now thoroughly confused. “Tell him what?” I ask.

“That you're in love with him,” she says plainly. “It would be nice to have someone be open about it for a change.”

Her sweet mouth twists with the bitterness of a woman decades older, and I stare at her like she’s just fallen off the moon. “Prim,” I venture slowly, as though I’m approaching a madwoman. “What are you talking about?”

She turns away from me but it’s clearly not an evasion, as her next words are forceful; even angry, despite her hushed tone. “You're all dancing around truths that would make everyone so…so blasted _happy,_ ” she says, “and yet over and over again you hold back, even when it must be killing you to keep it inside.”

“Prim,” I begin again, patiently, “I'm not in love with Gale.”

Her eyes flash back to me, their blue now silver, now wildcat-green, and I realize she was looking at the bakery or maybe at her own home, just next door. “Don't you dare lie to me too,” she says, fierce and vulnerable all at once. “Please, Madge.”

I ache for her. She’s grown into herself – a strong and radiant self – since Katniss left, but the absence of her fierce protector has left a void that no one can fill. Prim’s more gregarious than her sister, of course, but she’s still an Everdeen, isolated by the very virtues that make her so admirable.

I'm not surprised that Marko is passionately in love with this canny woman-child – not as she’ll be in another three or four years but just as she is at this very moment – and I’m suddenly, deeply grateful for him. That cheerful young giant can fulfill all her needs, sheltering, nurturing, even nourishing her until such time as the stars align and he becomes lover and husband and father to their children.

“I'm not in love with Gale,” I tell her again with gentle insistence but the words come out reedy, without conviction. “I'm not lying to you, Prim, I swear.”

Her lips part in a soft, wordless exclamation.  “ _Oh,_ ” she breathes, as though I’ve just confided something startling and wondrous. “You don't know yet, do you?”

“Don't know _what_?” I ask, perplexed and almost frightened by her words.

“I can live with that,” she declares, and kisses my cheek like a child. “Would you like to come in for a phosphate?” she offers, springing up off the bench. “Or maybe a lavender cream tea?”

It’s like a switch has been flipped and the perceptive, precocious elfin creature is a merry, silly twelve-year-old once more.

“I thought you didn't like the creamery,” I answer with a careful frown, getting up from my seat as well, and she looks at me like I've lost my mind.

“Where else would we get milk while Lady's pregnant?” she wonders, with neither guile nor humor.

Before my spinning head can come up with a reply, we’re descended upon by a tiny Seam girl, her black hair bouncing in rag-curls. “Prim!” she squeals, throwing her arms around my companion’s hips, and Prim bends with a laugh to kiss the top of her head.

“And did you have a very merry New Year?” Prim asks, and the girl hops back to display a wrapped treat from her coat pocket: a rabbit cookie exactly like the one Luka gave me at lunch.

“Father Christmas gave it to me,” she says solemnly.

I assume she’s caught up in holiday fancies when a boy of eight or so – her brother, no doubt – jogs up beside her. He’s almost girlishly pretty, with soft dusky features and thick-lashed eyes, and while both children are slight and small in build, neither has that hollow, hopeless look characteristic of Seam kids, nor is their clothing quite so patched and threadbare.

“We had a real Father Christmas this year,” he concurs in a rush of frosty breath. “Pony-drawn sleigh and all. He brought us a whole hamper of presents and then gave cookies to every kid in the Seam – a day early, but who’s counting?”

“A red-bearded Father Christmas?” Prim wonders, her eyes narrowed impishly, and my head ceases to spin as realization dawns.

Pollux, of course. I knew Peeta’s cheery male Avox was in town the day before New Year’s with presents for the Everdeens and Mellarks, and he must have made a side trip through the Seam with a gift for the Hawthornes. Which means these kids –

“Yep,” concurs the third arrival: the one Hawthorne sibling I recognize, if only just, and by virtue of his resemblance to a younger, scrawnier Gale. “He brought us snow ice cream and venison and cookies and ginger cake with custard. It was like a fairy tale.”

Judging by the wistful expression on Rory’s face as he gazes at Prim – and the dejected one that replaces it as he spots her sweetheart ribbon – decadent holiday fare isn’t his only fairy tale. Gale’s increased income has improved the lot of his entire family tenfold, but even a wealthy Hawthorne boy wouldn’t stand a chance against what’s woven itself between Prim and Marko.

“No sweethearts this year?” I interject, crouching down to bring myself eye-to-eye with the tiny girl, whose curls are anchored in strategic places with crisp white bows.

“No, miss,” she replies with the grave philosophy of the very young, blinking wide gray eyes at me. “Just brothers.”

“Very generous brothers,” I observe, teasing one of her beribboned curls with a fingertip as I straighten from my crouch.

“Gale has money now,” she replies with startling directness. “Stacks and stacks of it. He gave Columbine a whole bag of it to make me a pretty New Year’s dress.”

A white-hot spearpoint pierces beneath my left breast, thrusting apart the ribs to puncture the helpless muscle beneath. _Saint Teresa,_ I think dazedly, but this is anything but ecstasy.

“Don't worry,” Prim murmurs against my ear. “You're not in love with Gale Hawthorne.”

“Quite so,” I murmur back gratefully and the shaft withdraws, leaving behind a dull, unpleasant burn.

“I suppose he fancies Miss Wilhearn,” I say. “She’s the catch of the Seam, no doubt, and with his new job, I expect he can marry whoever he wants.”

“Not exactly,” the younger boy remarks and his brother shuts him up with a look.

“He told her he wanted to order a toasting dress next, but he wasn't sure of the material, or the lady,” Rory explains. “He said he might have to splash out and order it from the town tailor, though, or maybe borrow a cast-off from Katniss.”

A snort of laughter escapes in spite of my best efforts. “I’ll bet she liked that,” I chuckle.

“You’d be wrong,” the younger brother says, and dimples up at me.

I think I like him best of all.

“But he wants a wife?” I wonder, frowning. Such a girl won’t like her man disappearing for long days in the woods with the mayor's daughter, however platonic and professional the content of those days. If Gale’s marriage is imminent, I may be hunting on my own after all.

“He wants kids,” my dimpled friend supplies, seeming to relish holding the focus. “We thought maybe Katniss would want that with him, but when she left to go with Peeta, Ma said that was how it was always going to be. Wild things need bread and soft words and shyness.”

I smile at Mrs. Hawthorne’s perception. “And what about your brother?” I ask. “He's a wild thing, to be sure. Who’s supposed to tame him?”

“Oh, he’s already in love,” the younger brother replies with an innocence that feels ever so slightly deliberate.

“ _Madly,_ ” the tiny girl chimes in, as though this is her well-rehearsed line in their bit, and she gives a toothy grin.

“But she doesn’t care two pins for him,” her brother carries on. “And he says, ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’ So he’ll have to find someone else to marry him, only he doesn’t _want_ anyone else –”

“You can shut up anytime now, Vick,” Rory mutters meaningfully, scowling like Gale at his finest.

“You wanna come in with us?” the younger boy – Vick – wonders, offering me one mittened hand and batting his thick dark lashes. “We're going to split a five-penny phosphate and wait for Gale. He stops here last on school days and we all walk home together.”

Torn between the desire to hear what else this consciously adorable boy wants to confide and run like the blazes to get away before Gale arrives, I grasp reason with both hands and decline. “I should head home, alas,” I reply. “But thank you for the invitation – Vick, is it?”

“Vick it is,” he concurs, grinning. “And don’t worry, I’ll ask you again sometime.”

I laugh through my disbelief that this endearing flirt somehow emerged from the same nest as Jude’s “glower-pot.” “And I’ll accept,” I promise. “It was lovely to meet you, Vick, and your little sister –”

“Posy!” the tiny girl chirps. “Nice to meet you, Madge!”

Rory turns an interesting shade of purple and hefts his little sister into his arms. “C’mon, Pose,” he says. “I think we’ve distracted _the mayor’s daughter_ long enough.”

She giggles and shakes her head insistently, even as Vick murmurs, “Not _nearly_ long enough!” but Rory pops her back down onto her feet before she can counter him and muffles her mouth with both mittened hands. “Good to see you, Miss Undersee,” he says, with the gruff nod most Seam folk give my family as a measure of deference, and I nod to him in turn.

“Good to see you too, Rory,” I reply. “Enjoy your phosphate. See you tomorrow, Prim,” I add, and she gives me a quick impulsive hug.

“He comes with those three, after all,” she whispers. “Absolutely nothing to fall in love with there.

“Come on, Hawthornes,” she says cheerily, seeming more like a primary school teacher than a peer as she leads them off toward the apothecary. “What flavor will it be today?”

“Not pine,” Vick groans. “I just got over my cough. I’ve got pine coming out of my pores!”

“I like pine,” Posy peeps. “It tastes like New Year’s and kissing boughs.”

“How about one five-penny phosphate split into three little phosphates, and you each pick your own flavor?” Prim proposes, her voice fading with the distance, and the suggestion is met by a chorus of happy cheers.

I half expect to smack into a waiting Gale as soon as I turn for home and am almost more jarred when I don’t. He’s the last person I want to run into right now, of course, but as my whole day seemed to revolve around him, it feels odd and slightly hollow to end the day without seeing him again.

I’m three steps from the back door – side door, really; the servant’s entrance, where our trades take place – when I feel him, and it’s such an unmistakable indication of his presence, I marvel that I’ve never felt it before. I feel him like a thrill along my spine, like cold iron and warm wood and the sinuous tremor of a wild cat, poised to lunge, and I can’t decide whether to snap around and confront him or wait for him to address me, savoring this unsettling, incredible feeling.

But I’m still on trial and I’m not in love with Gale Hawthorne, so I turn swiftly and catch him with his mouth half-open, about to speak. “Your instincts _are_ good,” he remarks.

“I’ve had a strange day,” I retort, instinctively leaping back on my guard instead of accepting what my brain knows to be an unexpected, unmistakable compliment. “I’m a little on-edge.”

He hasn’t made it to the apothecary yet, and both shoulders are accordingly burdened with packs – more of Vick’s dreaded pine, no doubt, and perhaps some supper for his family. His infamous glower is minutely softer at the moment; that hard, scowling mouth tempered by something that might be humor, and his color is high from the bitter cold and a day’s exertion in the woods. My ribbon appears to have made it through the day unscathed and lingers, crisp as the moment I tied it, against his left arm, just above the elbow.

Whatever he does out there clearly agrees with him. He looks well.

No, he looks _wonderful._ I'm not in love with him, but I can finally see how a girl might be.

“I was thinking about our bargain this morning,” he says, “and I realized we forgot something rather binding.”

“Logistics?” I wonder. “Schedule? Percentages? I figured we’d discuss all that after you decided whether or not to keep me.”

“I’m not altogether sure that's my decision,” he admits with a wry twist of his lips. “If you're half as adept with your hands as you are with your tongue, I'm liable to get shot in strategically painful places if I try to send you home – and you'll take half my business anyway.”

Suddenly, I can’t take another minute of this mix of taunting and flirtation. I’m not a girl who enjoys being picked on or made fun of at the best of times, even if it comes from a place of affection. “So what do you want?” I ask, and don’t bother to hide my irritation.

“To kiss you,” he says bluntly.

There’s no humor in it, no insult, and nothing resembling flirtation in any way, shape, or form. It’s as if he asked me for the time of day.

“Ma’s going to ask about the red ribbon on my sleeve,” he explains, gesturing at the bow I tied on him an eternity ago, “and she won’t take kindly to the thought that I didn't kiss you for it.”

“So tell her the truth,” I suggest, wondering why the practical obvious didn’t occur to him and why my heart can’t seem to manage a steady beat. “She'll know soon enough.”

“Oh, she knows,” he says with a strange, bitter chuckle. “And she still won’t thank me for not kissing you.”

We regard each other in silence for a breathless eternity while my heart tries to fumble its way back into a recognizable cadence, and I’m about to ask why he’s still here when he takes a half-step forward and says, quietly, “So…can I kiss you, Madge?”

A furious haze clouds my eyes. I finally, literally comprehend the notion of a “blinding rage,” even if I don’t understand why a simple, even sensible request would make me so irrationally angry, and I lash out without hesitation. “This isn’t how it happens,” I snap, as much to myself as to him. “I know all about the damn ribbons, and I have no desire to get kissed out of some stupid New Year's obligation.”

“But…what about all your other sweethearts?” he wonders, clearly perplexed by my vehemence, and I glare back at him in silent fury, as though to repeat this morning’s dialogue would be condescending to us both.

“ _No sweethearts_ ,” he recalls softly, frowning. “ _No sweethearts ever._ That was true?”

“Because that’s something a mousy girl would lie about,” I retort. “Of course it’s true.”

“What about kisses?” he persists. “Surely you’ve had a few of those.”

I untie the bow at my nape with a yank and pull the ribbon free from my hair. “There,” I declare, holding it out to him. “No more obligation.”

The effect this has on him is only slightly more perplexing than the one his request for a kiss had on me. He chokes on a breath as though I struck him square in the solar plexus and his face mottles in an instant. “That's not how it works,” he says harshly, and his voice catches as though he’s in actual, physical pain. “I don’t _want_ it back, dammit. I gave it to you. And I don't want anything in return.”

“Fine!” I snarl, and jam the offending article into my pocket. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

He shakes his head, blinking with utter confusion. “What?”

“Sunday,” I remind him patronizingly. “Woods. Or are we just going to undo everything that happened this morning, and you’ll find yourself another partner?”

Somehow this upsets him even more than my attempt to return his ribbon. 

“No!” he snaps. “I don’t want anyone else; I want _you._ ”

“Well, maybe _I_ don't want _you,_ ” I counter snidely.

“Trust me, that wouldn't come as any sort of surprise,” he replies.

This isn’t going to work. We’ve spoken twice in one day for a total of ten minutes and we’re about to tear each other’s head off.

I feel hot and sick, like I need to cry and throw up and punch things and then start over from the top with crying. The eighteen inches of space between us is pulsing like an open wound and I can’t decide whether to close it or run from it.

“If you're at Ma's at sun-up, you can hike out with me,” he says; simple logistic details, but he tosses them caustically in my direction, like a barrage of personal insults. “Otherwise you'll have to find your own way through the fence, which I have no doubt you've already managed.”

“Get out of here,” I order him, “and don't even think about asking to kiss me ever again.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn't dream of it,” he retorts, then he storms off toward the Square, silent but for the crunch of angry footfalls in snow.

A mischievous gust floods my mouth and nose with a swirl of warm musky skin, crisp wool, and sharp, camphorous pine – no, bay laurel; the same as Jack Everdeen – and I gulp it deep into my lungs with a small wounded sound. I want to bury my face in Gale’s neck and feel his pulse against my lips as I drink in this smell with every breath; to open his coat and find his heartbeat with my bare hands.

 _Don’t worry,_ mocks the next gust, this one smelling only of coal dust and snow and spent kissing boughs, long since reduced to ash. _You’re not in love with Gale Hawthorne._

I burst into the house, desperate to put solid walls between me and the _knowing_ that seems to haunt me at every turn, and stumble a little at the sight of the kitchen in full swing. It’s supper-preparation time, to be sure, but that invariably means Cook takes up a tray for my mother to eat if she gets up and leaves a simple meal warming for myself and my father, easily served and cleaned up by one maid, while the rest of the staff goes home.

Tonight, Cook is checking a magnificent, festival-worthy roast in the big oven while all three kitchen maids eagerly prepare dishes of their own, peeling potatoes for mashing, chopping vibrant grocer-greens for a fresh salad, melting blocks of chocolate for some manner of dessert confection. Even Briony is there, still dressed in her best clothes after her unexpected day off, and lending a hand peeling carrots, never mind she doesn’t work in the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” I demand, as troubled as I am confused. A dinner of this caliber the day after New Year’s means Capitol guests or worse. Could the President be flying in to haunt us – my mother most especially – with his presence?

“The missus is up and wants a proper dinner in the dining room!” Cook crows, her narrow dark face shining with perspiration and delight in equal measure. “The girls all wanted to stay and lend a hand, but we’ll be done in good time, and no overages to pay.”

The last time my mother came down for dinner when it wasn’t a festival or holiday, Katniss’s father was still alive. But before I can even attempt to make sense of these tidings, Briony flies over to squeeze my hands with a giddy squeal, the carrots forgotten. “Oh, Miss Madeline, the day was _that_ lovely!” she sighs. “Mrs. Everdeen made me a phosphate with pine and cranberry syrups – like drinking New Year’s Day, it was, with coal-shoes and ribbons and Father Christmas with his sleigh and white ponies!

“Goodness, look at you!” she gasps, pausing in her swoon to look me over properly, and what she sees appears to astonish her even more than festive phosphates. “Why, you’re glowing like a kissing bough on the hearth, miss,” she breathes. “How did your business at the Hawthornes’ go?”

I silence her with a gesture and glance up to see if anyone’s paying attention. Our household is such a still, dusty place, these girls would descend on the slightest scrap of real, juicy gossip like a pack of wild dogs. No one’s ceased in their work, but knife-strokes have slowed substantially and Cook is puttering about without a purpose, her roast browning as it is. They’ll know soon enough – _everyone_ will, in a matter of weeks – but that’s no reason to open the floodgates at this particular moment.

I lead Briony out to the hallway and close the kitchen door behind us. “It went very well,” I tell her – quietly, just in case any curious ears followed us and lie in wait on the other side of the door. “I’m going to be Gale’s new hunting partner,” I explain.

“Oh!” she exclaims, a stunned little squeak of breath. “Well, I…I mean…that’s what you wanted, miss?” she wonders. “To go hunting in the woods with him?”

She’s kept her voice low but I’m not worried about the bugs, especially when this news is shortly to become the worst-kept secret in the district. “Exactly what I wanted,” I answer firmly.

“I see,” she says, though she very clearly _doesn’t_ , for she stares at me, frowning deeply, for several moments after. “Then I – forgive me, Miss Madeline –” she entreats, “but…I reckon you ought to tell him, then, and the sooner the better.”

I frown at her in question. I know better than to ask.

“That…that you’re in love with him, miss,” she says quietly. “I just… I reckon he should know, if you mean to spend all that time alone with him in the woods.”

And for once, the honest answer is the easiest.

“That has nothing to do with anything, Briony,” I say at last, woodenly. “And we’ll speak no more about it.”

“Of course, miss,” she replies, with a servant’s stock smile. “As you say. I’m glad your business went so well.”

She looks like she wants to tell me more about her day but thinks better of it and excuses herself back to the kitchen with a curtsey, for which I’m immensely grateful, as I’ve been unpleasant enough in this one day to last a lifetime and the last thing I need is to lash out at the maid who abetted my plan.

I’m so angry my face smarts and I want to burst into tears, never mind I can’t draw a breath.

Apparently, I love Gale Hawthorne.

_I love Gale Hawthorne._

I love Gale Hawthorne, the boy – _man_ – who’s never been anything but condescending to me, and I just threw him off the property and forbade him to even _think_ about kissing me.

 _Well, I’m not going to love him,_ I inform myself. It’s as simple as that. I don’t even _like_ him, and loving him would be the very essence of stupidity. An utter waste of time and energy and brain power.

So here and now, I’ll stop.

Except I _can’t._

I press my cheek against the flocked wallpaper with a shaky, hopeless moan.

I love him.

I love that pithy, fierce, resentful boy so much it hurts, and I’ve clearly felt that way for a while now, because the entire town – Rooba, Prim, Briony, even Mrs. Everdeen – knew it, even took it as fact, before I had the faintest inkling.

I can’t go off to the woods with him now. I’ll look like a stupid lovesick fool who came up with the worst excuse in the world to be close to him. Every trade we make will be met by knowing glances and snickers and inevitably, sly comments and mocking. Except –

I think back on our furious exchange outside the house and give a cry of relief, despite the pain every remembered word evokes. Gale doesn’t know I love him, and with the way we just parted, he’d never believe it, even if the entire town swore to him it was true. Oh, I’ll surely get ribbing as we go about our trade rounds, but it’ll be no worse than those people who assumed he loved Katniss when they hunted together, and folk will be far less likely to tease now that the boy in question has grown into a powerful young man who towers over more than a few Merchants and whose scowls are backed up with strong fists. And as for me –

I steel my breath and think of Mrs. Mellark, who once loved her husband wildly – perhaps she still does – and was never truly loved by him in return. She practically shares a wall with the woman her husband loved all those years ago – a remarkably beautiful woman, now widowed – and still she endures.

I’ll find a way to shut it off, this hot, hungry current of longing, and if I can’t, I’ll hide it away, somewhere deep inside, till it shrivels and dies from lack of nourishment.

After all, Gale’s done it for years: hiding his passion for the beautiful wild creature that is Katniss Everdeen – or was, before Peeta took her home to his woodland palace and patiently loved her tame. I can do as much, and with far greater ease.

 _The garden will cool my blood,_ I decide, its benches heaped with fresh downy drifts and trellises festive with New Year’s garlands. I’m still in my coat, after all. Brisk air and a secure bit of nature to roam in will provide all the soothing I need.

I make my way to the semicircular sunroom that overlooks the garden, with its double patio doors for summer functions, and give a start to find my mother there, nestled into one of the cushioned window seats.

She’s lovely in the way of an old photograph: soft and faded and indistinct. It was her twin sister Maysilee who died at sixteen in the brutal Quarter Quell, but my aunt lives on in our minds as a blazing, inventive survivor while my mother, Madeline, became the ghost. Sometimes I think it was only Mrs. Everdeen’s willingness to give her husband a child – Katniss, some five years into their marriage – that made my mother brave enough to have a child of her own. To let my patient father, his own looks fading with her spirit, into her bed at last.

My father loves me but I wasn't an especially longed-for child, which is probably why they didn’t go to much trouble naming me. I should be grateful they managed to name me at all rather than continuing to address me as “the child” or “the little one,” like the vague little ghost I am in this place.

I suppose we can't all be Everdeens, with names out of old tales and equally magical nicknames.

 _Catkin and Milkweed_ , Jack called his beautiful daughters with their wild, beautiful, forest-fairy names. _Willow Catkin,_ he explained to me once, after how Katniss looked in her rabbit-skin baby bunting, and _Milkweed_ for Prim’s luminous baby-down.

“Petal,” my mother greets with a sweet smile, and I return it as I settle beside her. The steaming cup in her hands holds coffee, made silky with cream and fragrant with almonds and spices.

“Coffee?” I wonder aloud, stunned and delighted by the change.

My mother adores coffee. She drank it often as a young woman, before her sister died, but in the years since it’s proven too stimulating for almost any occasion, bringing on the crippling headaches that sentence her to her dark bedroom or worse, keeping her awake through the night and drifting up and down the hallways like a slender white ghost.

“It’s a very good day,” she says, and raises the cup for a long, savoring sip.

Astonishing as it is to see her downstairs at this hour, to say nothing of drinking coffee while awaiting a proper dinner in the dining room with my father and myself, it’s even more unbelievable that any – let alone _all_ – of this should fall on the day after New Year’s.

As the mayor’s wife, my mother is up and about for the entirety of New Year’s Day without fail. The three of us rise mid-morning and share a light fireside breakfast of pastries and hot chocolate or tea, then our relatives from the sweet-shop come over for lunch, weighted down with their costliest, most breathtaking confections. We exchange presents after the meal, with a special round of gifts for the household staff, then they’re dismissed to enjoy New Year’s evening with their families or sweethearts, ribbons in hand, while we play a few festive games and graze at a lavish cold supper till the Donners go home.

My mother usually keeps to her bed for an entire day after such an influx of socializing and sweets, but clearly Mrs. Everdeen has worked her white magic once again, and then some. Far superior to any Capitol drug, she parts the darkness of trauma and grief with her sweet voice, cool hands, and fragrant potions.

There’s a strange symbiosis between them which led to an immediate, unspoken understanding between Katniss and myself and which makes Mrs. Hawthorne’s story this morning surprisingly credible, however unlikely the events and the timing. If Alyssum Ebberfeld was running off to marry a beautiful miner with a voice that could silence the woods in awe, it might well have sparked my mother to life, or at least, to aid and abet her best friend in whatever way she could.

Whatever transpired between them this morning has drawn her further from her cave of grief than I can easily recall of any previous occasion. Tonight my mother wears a pretty tailored dress of rose-colored wool, suede slippers, and her fur wrap; the one my father bought her for the Victory Tour this year, made of soft white fur to coincide with our beloved Victor’s coat, only it’s rabbit-skin, not bear. Her wheat-blonde hair is caught up in elegant, pearl-studded combs and there’s a crisp freshness about her, as though she just came in from the garden herself.

“I heard a story about you,” I tell her lightly, affectionately, not quite daring to tease lest I make her retreat back into herself and her rooms. “Running out to the Seam with a packed case and a canary in a cage, all pink skirts and high-buttoned shoes.”

She chuckles softly, as at a forgotten joke, but the humor fades quickly into a delicate frown. “The apple peels always made a ‘J’,” she recalls, “and one day that seemed to unsettle her. A lifetime of loving Janni Mellark and two years of sharing his bed, and suddenly a ‘J’ was unclear; inadequate. Even troubling.”

Her frown deepens, creasing a fine line between her brows. “She said it was his voice that morning in the meadow, but it was brewing in her much longer than that,” she says. “It was thrilling and I was happy for her, of course, but none of us ever felt right about how she left things with Janek.”

I knew a little of this – the very bones of Twelve’s earth know that the baker once loved the apothecary’s daughter and perhaps still does – but the extent of their relationship as my mother tells it is startling. And suddenly Prim’s anger about people dancing around the truth and refusing to speak their love outright makes a lot more sense.

Mr. Mellark must be in agony, forced to practically share a wall with his former lover, who is free to love and be loved as he is not.

“Still,” my mother goes on, “Mellarks know devotion. Twenty-two red ribbons,” she muses, shaking her head in disbelief, or could it be amusement? “No wonder she passed such a miserable night.

“Who told you?” she wonders, suddenly lucid and very present, but in a curious fashion, not a confrontational one. “About the skirts and the boots and Maysi's bird?”

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” I reply and hope beyond hope she doesn’t ask how or where that conversation took place.

She nods acknowledgement, drifting once more into memory. “Seam girls didn't much care for us back then,” she recollects. “The meanest would taunt and pick on us if we wandered onto their turf, but Hazelle was nice to me. She showed me to Jack's house and didn't mock or question my being there. She liked Maysi, I think,” she says. “She was tough and clever, like Maysi, and such a pretty girl to boot.”

I smile in reply. My mother rarely even mentions her sister, let alone as someone who’s come and gone. Today is a very good day indeed.

“I like Mrs. Hawthorne, I think,” I tell her. “She's frank and feisty, but not quite so in-your-face about it, like Rooba.”

She laughs, the heartiest such sound I’ve heard from her in six months. “Quite so,” she replies, and we settle deeper into the cushions, gazing out at the snow-blanketed garden and the setting sun shimmering off the crests of the highest drifts.

“Such a beautiful boy,” she murmurs.

Jack Everdeen was that in every way and from all accounts, including my own memory, and I nod absently in agreement.

“Not in that eldritch fashion, like Jack,” she goes on, “but the bloodline had to fork somewhere, and there was only Ashpet before her mama died.”

I turn away from the window, completely perplexed now, and she lays a cool hand over my still-gloved one. “Tell him quickly, petal,” she urges. “He's been so very patient. And...” She frowns slightly, as though she’s trying to recall something she wants to get just right. “There's nothing more irresistible to a man than a woman who's in love with him,” she concludes, like she’s quoting an old story or maybe a film, before they were garish, grotesque pantomimes created solely to stimulate a bored and bloated Capitol.

And then I realize – _impossibly_ – who and what she’s talking about.

Even my mother, who lives in silent darkness ninety percent of the time, can see it.

“He waited so long for Katniss,” I agree carefully, “and then Peeta carried her off like Father Christmas in reverse.”

“Katniss?” she echoes with a small, wry smile, and it’s the canniest expression I’ve ever seen on her face outside of photographs from when she was a girl. “The proudest boy in Twelve came to the mayor’s mansion to ask for a kiss the day after New Year’s, and you think he's in love with Katniss?”

I rise from the window seat as in a dream, but my breath is shallow and ragged and my hands tremble at my sides.

My mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Overstimulated as she must be at this moment, she might even think Gale and I are Jack and Alyssum. “Don’t,” I whisper. “You’re wrong.”

“There’s clarity in silence, petal,” she says gently, reaching out to take my right hand in her left, but I pull away from her touch. “When people aren’t loudly exchanging their polite and proper lies, it’s much easier to discern the truth,” she explains. “Especially when you see it for yourself.”

She was in the garden when Gale and I argued, near enough to hear or even observe our angry exchange.

“No,” I whisper, and leave the room so fast I stumble at the threshold.

I’ve never once walked away when my mother wants to engage but I can’t bear another moment of this.

 _You're all dancing around truths that would make everyone so…so blasted_ happy _,_ Prim fumes in my mind, _and yet over and over again you hold back, even when it must be killing you to keep it inside._

_Don't you dare lie to me too. Please, Madge._

_Can I kiss you, Madge?_

Gale’s request resonates in my bones; his voice uncharacteristically soft, even vulnerable.

 _I don’t want anyone else; I want_ you.

 _He’s already in love,_ his siblings twitter in my head, like tiny impish blackbirds. _Madly._ _But she doesn’t care two pins for him. And he says, ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’ So he’ll have to find someone else to marry him, only he doesn’t_ want _anyone else –_

I clap both gloved hands over my mouth and shriek wordlessly into my palms.

Gale doesn’t love me, whatever anyone says – let alone my mother, who’s scarcely been out the house, let alone her bedroom, since the Victory Tour. It’s been an overwhelming day, heartbreaking and wondrous in turns, and my mind is attempting to make sense of it by cobbling together all the fragments it’s collected from the conversations that took place. The pieces fit perfectly into each other but the picture they form is all wrong, which means I’m holding pieces of someone else’s puzzle – Gale’s actual sweetheart or even Gale himself – and trying to fit them into my own life.

There is no future where Gale and Madge are entwined like ribbons around a kissing bough, where _she loves_ and _he loves_ come together like halves of an eggshell, and giving my mother’s wild suggestion any credence whatsoever will only make stifling my love for him that much more painful.

I need to get out of the house before I shatter.

The garden is no longer an option, not with my mother waiting just inside the door, and the servant’s entrance would crumble me with memories. But the street should be empty, or nearly, with everyone at home cooking supper or well on their way there, so I blindly make my way to the front door and throw it open.

Standing on the porch, gazing down toward the quiet dusk of the Square, is a female figure in a dark hooded coat, with an empty basket on one arm.

“I was once as you are now,” remarks the Spectre without turning around.

Surely, it must be Mrs. Everdeen, returned with a fresh supply of her ghostly warnings, but the voice is huskier, stronger, fiercer.

Unmistakable.

“Ghost of the Future,” I whisper. “I fear you most of all.”

The woman turns to face me, throwing warm golden porchlight across her features, but I knew her perfectly well without it. Tonight, however, she is something more: the Fairy Queen herself, her bright hair and immortal beauty shielded by dark mortal garments.

She’s always been beautiful, I realize. Striking, even, but somehow I had never noticed it before this moment.

Before this moment, I doubt anyone had noticed it.

“I was almost exactly as you are now,” Mrs. Mellark says. “Sixteen and invisible, unnecessary, surplus to requirements. Of course, I didn’t live in a mansion, but surroundings matter little when the people around don’t see you.”

She steps closer to me and I shiver with something halfway between dread and awe. In this moment the baker’s wife is both magnificent and terrifying, and I would beg her to keep silent if I could only manage to find my voice.

“That New Year’s night, Jack Everdeen asked me to marry him,” she murmurs.

This is so impossible and ridiculous that I scoff in spite of my fear, only to gasp in true dismay as one strong hand snakes out from the dark shadow of her form to grasp the front of my coat.

“You think it’s funny?” she demands, her voice breaking. “I relive that moment in my dreams every night of my life and wake to grieve my decision every morning.”

Her eyes flood with a loss she’s never shown anyone in Twelve and she releases me with a painful sigh. “It was the winter after my twin and your mother’s died,” she whispers.

She doesn’t say “the year Twelve won the Quarter Quell,” and I’m not surprised in the least. It probably doesn’t even register in her mind that way. It certainly doesn’t with my mother.

“Alys and Janek were estranged by grief and I thought, _Maybe I have a chance_ ,” she begins. “Only I didn’t; I never did, and I was a fool to hope otherwise. But still, I went to the bakery on New Year’s night, sweetheart’s token in hand, and met Jack in the street outside, with the same idea and the same dashed hopes.”

She draws a long shallow breath. “So we talked a little and gave each other the gifts we’d brought,” she goes on quietly. “It was like the most incredible dream. I knew I’d keep it close for the rest of my life, whatever might happen to me; I would always have that one shining, impossible moment to cling to, too wondrous for words. And then Jack asked me to marry him.”

I don’t scoff this time.

“Not as a joke nor a last resort,” she clarifies, though I neither ask for nor require it. “For every good and wonderful reason you can imagine. And I turned him down.”

“You didn’t love him,” I venture in a small voice.

“Not love him?” she echoes. “The boy who made me acorn cake and a family of stick dollies after my father died? The boy who followed my brother’s body home with his own handkerchief still soaking up the blood at Luka’s throat – who sang at Luka’s burial even though I screamed and cursed at him?

“Not love him?” she whispers, glancing away from me into the deepening shadows. “His mouth tasted of gumdrops.”

I clap a hand over my own mouth to stifle a gasp.

Katniss’s father preferred gumdrops above all other sweets. It was well-known; yet another aspect of the folk legend or fairy-figure that was Jack Everdeen. His breath smelled of cloves and anise, ginger and cinnamon, depending on which color he had eaten last.

Which means at some point, many years ago, he undeniably kissed Raisa Brognar.

“I seized every excuse I could think of to throw between us like a wall,” she says hoarsely, “because deep down there was my father’s awful voice, saying I didn’t deserve a man like Jack Everdeen, or the life he would have given me.

“Can you imagine what my life would have been if I’d married him?” she asks. “What _this_ _world_ as we know it would be like?”

Everything would have changed, I realize, and not merely a few children here and there. Janek Mellark and Alyssum Ebberfeld would have married, and the bakery and apothecary would probably have knocked down walls and turned two homes and businesses into one, all butter and yeast and lavender, with beautiful blond children running from one side to the other.

Jack Everdeen would never have stayed in the mines if he’d married a Merchant woman whose family embraced the union instead of casting her off, and the Brognars would have been over the moon to bring an expert hunter into the butchering business. As a butcher’s daughter, Raisa would have been a natural hunting partner, with an invaluable skill set from the get-go.

Like as not, Jack would still be alive, and Katniss would still be here, living with him.

In another life Katniss would be this woman’s daughter, and somehow I know she would be even stronger and more beautiful for it.

And with Jack alive and married to this fierce Fairy Queen, who knows how long the Capitol would rule over us?

 _So my day is to be bookended by cautionary tales,_ I think. _A girl who didn’t marry her first love and is haunted by the memories, especially as his devotion lingers twenty-two years into his marriage to another woman, and a girl who ran from bliss with an incredible young man and hoped an oblivious boy would come to love her, only to suffer through twenty-two years of his longing for the girl who’d rejected him._

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, my voice hushed in both deference and trepidation. Of all the people who’ve addressed me today, she’s the only one who hasn’t immediately given instruction, and yet I know hers will be the most important of all.

She raises her brows, as though astonished to find I’ve taken her seriously. “I don’t care for the Hawthornes,” she says plainly. “They’re a dirty, ragtag bunch, like the men who killed my brother. But they’re half-kin to the Everdeens,” she admits, “which means a little of Jack’s blood flows in Gale’s veins, whether he knows it or not.”

My mother’s strange remark about the forked bloodline abruptly makes sense. The Hawthornes and Everdeens must be kin through Ashpet’s mother – or grandmother, rather, as I have eyes and a certain degree of perception, and folk like Ashpet, Jack, and Katniss don’t simply crop up naturally in a place like Twelve.

“So what do you want me to do?” I persist.

Her eyes lock on mine and I shiver, fearing the worst and knowing I’d do it just the same, because this is the living ghost of my future, who knows what will become of me if my life continues on its present course. “Find Jack in him,” she tells me. “Draw it out.”

I blink rapidly in reply, perplexed by this order. Surely she doesn’t mean that Gale harbors a secret love of birds, folk songs, and fairy tales, and the best thing I can do is buy him a dulcimer.

“When Jack’s papa died, he nurtured,” she explains. “He went to the woods for sustenance for his broken mama and the woods embraced him like a sort of foster parent. When Gale’s papa died, he turned hard; caustic and angry. It’s all in their kills,” she says, as though this much is obvious. “Katniss kills swift and mercifully, like her papa taught her, and she never kills a female if she has a choice. More often than not, Gale snares, even after he got his hands on a bow. It’s a more efficient use of his time, he thinks, but it’s not the kindest way to die, nor is it especially discriminating in its victims.”

I consider this. Snares are stock-in-trade for desperate tributes, especially those who are otherwise unskilled hunters, but they hide death – a swift one or a slow agonizing one – beneath desperately needed food. An animal may be oblivious when Katniss’s arrow pierces its brain, but she didn’t lure it to her with a false promise of sustenance, and the end is immediate and, in a bittersweet way, the kinder for it.

“Gale doesn’t see the woods, the creatures, the people of his world, even, the way that Jack did,” she goes on. “That survival is about more than a balance of meat and money. And that’s coming from a butcher’s daughter,” she adds wryly.

“I’m supposed to be his new hunting partner,” I reveal, almost as though I’m seeking approval.

“I know,” she replies with a faint, startling chuckle. “He told half the Merchants in town before he headed out this morning – to make sure they were apprised of the new arrangement, he claimed. Surely not because he was excited by the prospect of spending long hours in the woods with the girl he fancies.”

I hadn’t put this together yet, but it’s clearly true. Jude knew at lunchtime that the ribbon in my hair came from Gale and that we'd be hunting together, and who but Gale would have warned Rooba to watch out for me? It's unlikely that he would have told the Merchants about his new hunting partner in an effort to embarrass her or get her in trouble, as this would only draw attention to his own questionable activities by extension.

Which means at the very least, Gale is pleased to have me as his hunting partner – at the most, perhaps even proud.

 _A very proud boy,_ I recall, who, for whatever reason, enjoys the sight of the mayor’s daughter’s ribbon on his arm as much as his own ribbon in her hair.

“Personally, I think you’ll take one look at that wildwood and either hurl yourself into its arms or immediately catalog all the ways to profit from its bounty without having to raise that bow you so desperately want to master,” Mrs. Mellark predicts. “Don’t misunderstand me: I think you’ll be every bit as capable at hunting as you set your mind to be, but you won’t need to kill to succeed in the woods.”

“So what do you expect me to do?” I puzzle. “Sell roast pine bark off a barrow in the Hob?”

“It’s half an idea,” she observes, almost – I think – teasing me. “And I never meant that you shouldn’t hunt, just – temper your boy’s fire a little.”

I try to imagine tempering any part of Gale, let alone his very nature as a predator in the woods, and shake my head – in disbelief, not disagreement. “What else do you require of me?” I wonder. “Shall I drain the lake with a sieve while I’m at it, or build a bridge of feathers to the moon?”

She smiles, a disarming curve of her beautiful mouth, and I wonder how her husband has managed to deny her _anything_ these twenty-two years, let alone the love she so desperately craves. “Something far more difficult,” she warns. “When he asks you, say yes.”

I don’t ask what she means. I’m already trembling at the prospect. “He won’t ask,” I assure us both. “He’s a proud, angry boy who would never love me.”

She considers this with a tilt of her head. “You may be half-right,” she concedes. “In which case: you ask him.”

“Are you mad?” I gape.

“You confronted him in his own neighborhood this morning and informed him that you would be his new hunting partner,” she reminds me drolly. “Letting him into your bed – after the proper ceremonies and nicities, of course – will be the easy part.”

I avert my burning face, recalling that this _is_ Rooba’s sister, after all, even if she only betrays it every now and again, but a gloved hand guides me back. “When the moment arises, marry him,” Mrs. Mellark urges solemnly, meeting and holding my gaze. “Don’t tell yourself you’re too young or one of you is too good for the other. Marry him, and be wild and happy together.”

For all her words about finding the essence of Katniss’s father in Gale and tempering his fire, somehow I feel like this is the most vital instruction of all. The one on which the remainder of my life hinges, and without which I will lead a ghost of a life, like this woman. “But I don’t want to marry Gale,” I whisper. “I don’t even _like_ him.”

She traces my cheek with a fingertip in a gesture more gentle than I would ever have dreamed she was capable of. “But you _love_ him,” she reminds me quietly. “And once you accept that he loves you, everything else will fall into place.

“That was my fatal error,” she confesses, releasing me and making her way to the top of the porch steps. “If I had _once_ accepted that Jack Everdeen could – _did_ – love me, Janek Mellark would have vanished like a summer daydream. Instead, here I am–” she lifts her empty basket demonstratively – "delivering a special order of nostalgic bread to my husband's childhood friend, who miraculously broke through her daily stupor after spending the morning with Alyssum Everdeen and hearing all about her New Year’s celebration.”  

For reasons I can’t quite define, I’m compelled to step forward and lay my hand on hers on the basket handle. _I’m so sorry,_ I would say if I could, but it’s far too late for that.

“I’m no fool, Madeline Undersee,” she says fiercely. “I simply have to decide whether or not to fight for the man who never wanted me anyway. The dragon’s dilemma,” she adds with a wry, philosophic smile. “But every now and again you find a prince like Asa Everdeen or my two younger sons, who is content to be roasted alive and devoured whole, if only the dragon will think kindly upon him after.”

“What about your eldest son?” I dare and she laughs shortly in reply. “Any buffoon can fall in love with a witch,” she informs me. “Though in his case, it appears to have happened all on its own, and innocently enough on both sides. I don’t much care for her pedigree,” she admits dryly, “but I’m rather enamored of her father.”

And with that she descends the steps and melts into the lengthening shadows of the evening, leaving me – as should any good Spectre – silent and shivering and thoroughly haunted by her directives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Mellark's conversation with Madge relates the events of Ch 1 of **True North** , my canon/divergent Jack/Raisa fic. There are also a handful of nods to a future canon Panem fic I mean to call Star-Crossed, about the relationship between Katniss's great-grandmother Elspeth (Granny Ashpet's mother) and her improbable lover in the early post-Dark Days/time of the Games. Said nods allude to the kinship between the Everdeens and the Hawthornes, which in my headcanon traces back to Jack and Hazelle's grandmothers (Elspeth and Aisling Greenbrier, respectively) being sisters. Which makes Gale and Katniss true "cousins" of some degree - related but "not closely," per canon.


	3. Prospects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly have no idea where this fic is coming from, or why. I didn't choose to work on this instead of WtM (I've been struggling with depression for several months and have barely managed to start the next chapter of WtM :/) and I'm kind of astonished that there's this massive "meanwhile, back in Twelve" story that wants desperately to be told - and for that matter, that it's spilling forth in such detail. I truly expected this fic to consist of a handful of pivotal Gadge moments taking place over - surprise, surprise - six months (or so) in their lives, so parts of this are as much a surprise to me as to you. But I'm a little in love with this story just the same, so I may continue to chase it as long as the inspiration and ideas last.
> 
> And yep, I changed the rating. Not for anything happening in this chapter, mind, but to quote Mayor Undersee: "the wind is blowing in that direction." ;)

I wake shivering and sweat-damp from dreams of hooded ghosts and fairy queens, angry words and even angrier kisses, and reach blindly for the nightstand, where I abandoned my precious cuffs and collar last night in my desperate lunge toward the oblivion of sleep. My fingers close around plush silky pile and I bring all three pieces to my chest, cupping them in both hands and nestling my face into the comfort of wild fur.

 _I am a huntress,_ I remind myself, breathing deeply of fur-musk and skin-memories of snow and earth, moss and pine. _I am silent, steady, and strong._ _I carry no one’s heart, nor have I given my own to any boy._ _I am aloof and solitary and unkissed as the moon._

_Can I kiss you, Madge?_

I curl on my side like a small hibernating creature, encircling the pang that aches so much deeper than flesh, and bury my face in the furs.

Here and now, I forbid myself to think about Gale Hawthorne. I may not be able to stop loving him, but that doesn’t mean I should give him another moment’s thought.

But I find my hands selecting pretty clothes just the same as I wonder if there’s anything I should pick up from the apothecary after school, and when my left hand closes around the red ribbon where I threw it last night, my mind makes no protest.

I barely made it to supper last night and ate next to none of the lovingly prepared feast, but I needn't have worried about drawing attention. My father was so delighted to have my mother joining us at a meal, let alone right after a holiday, that he spoke almost exclusively to her and held her hand like an enraptured sweetheart whenever she could spare it. She graciously said nothing to me or to him about the conversation in the sunroom, but I felt her gaze whenever my father’s dropped to his meal and I knew she was wondering what had happened to me in the minutes between my angry departure from her company and my arrival at the dinner table, silent and shaken.

My appetite continues to elude me this morning, particularly on the heels of last night’s dreams, but I remind myself that I no longer have the luxury of eating only when I feel like it. As a huntress, I must eat heartily of any meal that’s provided to keep up my stamina and strength, which means breakfast now and a solid lunch to follow.

I arrive in the dining room to find my father sipping his usual stout black coffee and my mother – breaking her routine yet again – seated beside him, eating delicate spoonsful of oatmeal drowned in honey and cream and a buttered slice of last night’s special delivery: honey-almond bread, toasted golden-brown.

I wonder how much of yesterday’s therapy was medicine and how much was nostalgia. Mrs. Everdeen’s passion for all things almond is almost as well-known as her late husband’s devotion to gumdrops, particularly when your relatives run the sweet-shop and relish the little flickers of gossip any unique purchase provides, and the pattern in my mother’s food choices of late is unmistakable.

“No coffee this morning?” I ask lightly as I sit across from her.

“I don’t want to overdo things prematurely,” she answers in kind.

She looks remarkable this morning, as though she enjoyed the most restful sleep of her life since her sister died, and my father’s free hand drifts over hers. “Very wise, Maddi,” he murmurs, and though his eyes are focused on the agenda packet lying over his empty plate, it’s apparent that his attention is torn between this morning’s docket and my mother’s slim white fingers.

Which implies that she may well have spent last night in his bed, or even welcomed him into hers.

For all that New Year’s night is for sweethearts and my parents exchange ribbons like any other devoted couple, the holiday is too draining on my mother for her to concede to more than a token kiss or two, and she’s typically ensconced in her dark bedroom at the earliest possible opportunity, while my father and I are still nibbling on festive cookies at the fireside and chuckling over silly gifts.

I can’t imagine her being overwhelmed with passion for my balding, work-wearied father last night – or any other, for that matter – but perhaps there was something of an aphrodisiac effect to the spiced, nutty coffee she was sipping in the sunroom; clearly, another gift from Mrs. Everdeen. I’m torn between a healthy revulsion at the mental image of my parents in bed together and a wry curiosity as to whether the after-effects of physical intimacy can alleviate the sorts of conditions that afflict my mother.

If it was as simple as that, surely she wouldn’t have been forced to revert to morphling time and again.

I fill my plate with hearty portions of the griddle cakes, eggs, and bacon provided and methodically ingest mouthful after mouthful, all but untasted.

“I thought I might take a walk this morning,” my mother remarks. “Yesterday’s walk in the garden did me the world of good, and it’s not so very far to the apothecary.”

My father looks up from his papers with elevated eyebrows, as pleased as he is astonished. “Are you sure?” he wonders. “As well as you’re feeling, as you said, it’s best not to push.”

“You could walk me over on your way to work, and Alys could walk me back,” she suggests, and my father, so patiently and overwhelmingly in love with his so-frequently-distant wife, melts before our very eyes.

“If we leave early enough, we can split a phosphate like a courting couple,” he suggests with an almost foolish grin, and I drop my fork with a sharp exhalation.

“Are you all right this morning, magpie?” my father asks, brows knitting in a well-practiced expression. “You barely ate anything at all last night, and you’ve been still as a stone since you came down.”

Despite fighting the impulse with every ounce of my being, my gaze is drawn to my mother, who is watching me with a curious sort of tenderness. “She had an argument with Gale Hawthorne yesterday afternoon,” she replies to my father, though her eyes remain on me. “Some question of trade – an inconsequential matter, to be sure – but you know how rough-spoken that boy can be.”

“ _Man_ ,” he corrects her with a thoughtful frown, glancing back at his papers. “With his increase in income, he’s applied for an upgrade in his family’s housing. A larger dwelling, but there are few such in the Seam and none of them unoccupied.”

“Would you offer them a place in the Merchant sector?” my mother asks, the mere suggestion of which unsettles me, never mind that proud Seam boy would never accept. “There are a few empty houses and living quarters over closed shops.”

“Actually, we’re looking into repurposing a portion of the Victor’s Village,” my father replies, shocking us both. “Subdividing a few of the homes into smaller residences for overflow housing.”

“You’ll never get permission for that,” I blurt, more than a little frightened that my father even _mentioned_ such an idea to his Capitol associates, and he chuckles.

“I hardly expected success, but progress has been surprisingly promising,” he replies. “There’s a special cleaning and maintenance team – Justice Building staff, mind you – employed just to take care of the eleven empty houses, and by allotting those houses to district families, the funds for those wages would channel back to the Capitol instead. Twelve gets roughly one Victor every twenty-five years, and our most recent chose alternative housing,” he reminds us. “It may well not happen, of course, and even if it did there would be rounds of committees and sub-committees –”

“And an exhaustive selection process,” I conclude dryly. “The Hawthornes would never even make it into the pile, let alone to the top of it.”

“I wouldn’t say _never_ ,” my father counters, his voice surprisingly soft. “Things are changing, magpie – they have been, ever since last year’s Games, when we got a Victor driven by compassion and love.”

“He’s right, petal,” my mother concurs quietly. “You have only to look at the Hawthornes for proof.”

“And speaking of which,” my father says, his frown returning, “next month you come of age to be married – once the Quell is past, of course.”

There’s a strange clause in Twelve, if not in every district, whereby you can legally get married at seventeen – following your penultimate Reaping – with parental consent. You sign all kinds of documents beforehand indicating that you know this marriage won’t exclude you from the Reaping, even if you should get pregnant, but of the few brave couples who've tried it, neither spouse has ever been Reaped. It’s given rise to a sort of legend, supported by 74 years of fact: that eighteen-year-olds in Twelve don’t get Reaped, no matter how many entries they’ve accrued, and there are a few theories as to why.

The first is simply that an eighteen-year-old from _anywhere_ stands a chance at being a contender against twelve- and fourteen-year-olds, even from the Career districts, and the President’s never been altogether pleased to present a Victor’s crown to a tribute from our smallest and poorest of districts, whose reward will bolster its people for a solid year. The second theory and, to my mind, the likelier, is that if you’ve survived eighteen years of life in Twelve, you’re clearly viable stock and therefore more valuable for breeding future workers and tributes than you might be for a few days of on-screen entertainment, which will invariably end in your death.

We’re surely due to be reminded otherwise, perhaps in this year’s Quarter Quell, but the clause persists to this day, though I can’t think of the last time anyone took advantage of it. It’s almost unheard of for a couple to even get engaged before their last Reaping, even if one spouse is nineteen or older, and I’m certainly not in line to change that.

“Between his age and his income, Hawthorne is eligible for his own residence, especially if he gets married,” my father goes on. “And he seems to pay you particular attention.”

I glance sharply at my mother but she gives a careful shake of her head, indicating that none of this information came from her.

“Has he made any such overtures?” he asks me, direct and kindly all at once. “I’m not altogether opposed, mind; I’d simply like to know if the wind is blowing in that direction.”

“No,” I insist, my face burning. “There’s been nothing of that kind from Gale, nor is there ever likely to be.”

“Ah,” my father says, and he sits back in his chair to regard me, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Have _you_ made any such overtures?” he wonders.

I shove back my chair as I stand and toss down my napkin over my barely-eaten breakfast. “There’s nothing _whatsoever_ going on between Gale Hawthorne and myself,” I declare. “Why won’t anyone accept that?”

And without waiting to hear whether Gale stopped by my father’s office yesterday during his calls to the other Merchants to apprise him of the new partnership or perhaps my father overheard any one of the conversations yesterday about my alleged feelings for Gale, I storm upstairs to collect my schoolbooks, come down through the kitchen to grab my lunch, and leave the house some twenty minutes earlier than usual.

I’ve still barely eaten enough to tide over a sparrow and the bakery is my best bet for breakfast en route. I’m waiting for Mr. Mellark to wrap a plum-filled pastry pocket for me – and trying furiously not to stare at him, seeking any evidence of his potentially rekindled relationship with Mrs. Everdeen – when Marko appears like a pop-up toy in the kitchen doorway, jam jar pies in hand, and I realize Prim has come in behind me.

“’Morning, sweetheart!” he calls to her cheerfully, and then his ever-present smile falters, just for a half-second, and he clears his throat before continuing. “Inspired by our sweet-shop friends, today’s dessert offering is a plum custard pie, with chicken and sweet potatoes for your savory,” he explains, tucking the beautiful tiny pies into her proffered lunch pail as she comes to stand at the counter alongside me.

I turn to look at her properly, curious what about her appearance could have startled or even upset her sweetheart, especially when he was so openly delighted at her arrival, and find her every bit as radiant as she was yesterday, down to the bright red ribbon, woven through her long pale plait this morning.

It’s uncommon but not unheard-of to wear your ribbon past the day after New Year’s, but Marko’s no longer wearing his, or at least, not anywhere I can see, and I wonder for an awful moment if the whole sweetheart display I witnessed between them yesterday was some kind of festive joke that Prim mistakenly took as reality.

But no, if anyone misjudged the extent of their relationship it’s likeliest to have been Marko, and he’s presently gazing at her like she’s wearing the sun as a crown, not an ordinary yellow stocking cap. He loves her to the marrow of his bones, no question about it. But then why is the sight of his ribbon in her braid so jarring? Does he feel ashamed for not wearing hers today – no doubt, for practical reasons?

Thankfully, Prim’s newfound independence comes with a startling measure of directness, and she catches his hand before he can draw it back. “What is it?” she asks quietly. “What’s wrong?”

Even in a mitten her hand is dwarfed by his, and yet she still holds him entirely captive. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assures her, but his voice is slightly hoarse. “Just a little…unexpected.” His free hand twitches – no, _trembles_ – at his side, as though it’s itching to reach out and stroke her braid, and he clears his throat once more. “You look lovely this morning, Primrose,” he says.

“Tell me tonight,” she persists, undistracted by the compliment, and squeezes his hand in farewell. “See you then,” she murmurs, and leaves the bakery.

Marko stares after her, his so-often-merry face somber and strangely troubled, and then my attention is captured by his father handing over my wrapped pastry.

“Mom’s doing very well today,” I tell the baker impulsively, because once upon a time he and my mother were good friends, not – I assure myself – because I want to see and gauge his reactions. “She loves the honey-almond bread your wife brought over, and last night she even had coffee before supper.”

“Coffee?” he marvels with a broad, delighted smile. “It’s been years for that, surely?”

“She’s tried it now and again, but it always brought on her headaches worse than before,” I explain. “Maybe it was the almonds and spices that flavored this brew, but she had a restful night and was feeling really good this morning, even energetic.”

“Almonds and spices?” the baker echoes, a little faintly. “That doesn’t sound like mercantile coffee.”

He looks caught off-guard, if not quite _caught_ , and I press again, more directly this time. “Alys Everdeen came by yesterday,” I reply, watching his eyes, and am not disappointed by the flicker at his former lover’s name. “Perhaps it’s her own festive blend,” I suggest, “and she wanted to share a cup with her friend.”

That this news affects him is unmistakable but just _how_ is difficult to discern. He looks stricken and relieved all at once, even slightly wounded, but he betrays none of this in his reply. “Like as not,” he agrees, if not as evenly as I suspect he would like. “Alyssum has always been fond of almonds, and now she can afford to enjoy them in everything – even in her coffee, if she wishes.”

“Then she must love your honey-almond bread,” I guess with a careful smile.

He flinches at these words, as at the pang of an old wound that has never truly healed. “It was meant for our toasting loaf, twenty-two years ago,” he says bluntly. “She hasn't asked for it since, nor do I expect her to.”

The moment the words are out, his face softens in contrition. “Please forgive me, Miss Undersee,” he entreats. “I should not have said... This holiday was a difficult one,” he concludes, an entirely correct statement, if not what I suspect he had initially set out to say.

“You didn’t have Peeta,” I remind him gently, though we both know that was, at best, half of the problem. “Incomplete families always feel extra hollow at holiday-time.”

“Something your own family knows all too well,” he acknowledges, but his eyes are grateful. “I'll save back a few of these plum pockets for your mother – free of charge – and you can pick them up after school. The Donner girls always did like their plums,” he recalls with a fond, sad smile. 

I eagerly unwrap my breakfast treat as I make my way outside and break open the flaky puff pastry for one impatient stolen lick of the decadent filling at its heart. This particular treat – a holiday favorite, filled with spiced wild plum jam and velvety sweet cream – is reminiscent of sugar plums, and I’m as much a dyed-in-the-wool plum-loving Donner girl as they come.

I’m about to turn for school when I feel eyes on me and glance about till I spot Prim sitting patiently on the bench just opposite, where we spoke yesterday, and nibbling neatly at a sweet bun, as though waiting to resume our conversation.

I cross to the bench without hesitation and sit beside her.

“What was that all about?” I wonder, nodding back toward the bakery.

“Would you believe, I have no idea?” she says, to my surprise, and I wonder if she might have a blind spot like her sister after all. Could she really be oblivious to the intense, even passionate relationship that she and Marko are practically broadcasting for all the world to see?

“I really wouldn’t,” I admit, and she laughs.

“I’ve never had a sweetheart before, Madge,” she laments, but good-naturedly. “They're strange creatures with even stranger ways.”

“How was last night?” I ask, thinking that might provide some clue.

“Lovely as always,” she dismisses with a slight frown. “Not quite so magical as New Year’s, of course, but what is?”

“Has it occurred to you –?” I begin, with every intention of delicately suggesting that, perhaps, her twenty-one-year-old swain doesn’t want to wait around for a twelve-year-old to catch up with him, but I stop before I can proclaim myself a total idiot. Whatever’s going on with Marko this morning, the look on his face as he watched Prim leave said he was desperate to keep this girl.

“Oh right,” I answer for myself as the alternate possibility – and a far likelier one – presents itself.

Marko’s a good, solid man – a strong, fit specimen, if not the prettiest Mellark in the nest – grounded in the life he’s going to lead for the next forty years or more, whereas Prim is still, for all intents and purposes, a beautiful child with new opportunities arising on every side as she grows into her new life in town. Like as not, Marko’s torn between keeping her in trust for himself and encouraging her to find a sweetheart her own age. He’s not ancient by any means, but he can hardly court her the way they both must want for at least two more years, while a boy her own age could partner her at festivals, walk her to school, sit with her at lunch: all those little everyday things that seem to be part and parcel of most marriage-bound relationships in Twelve.

“Has what occurred to me?” Prim presses, openly curious.

“That...” I begin, and I look at her, curious in turn. “That your father might have loved someone else, besides your mother?”

Her brows arch but she doesn’t look half as shocked or horrified as I would have expected – as I fully expect Katniss would react to such a question. “I haven't,” she replies thoughtfully, “but it makes a surprising amount of sense. Dad always said he loved Mom from the moment he first laid eyes on her: standing on tiptoe to peer over the apothecary counter at their new baby,” she explains, a little incredulous. This sounds far more fairy tale than fact – and therefore, inevitably, true where Jack Everdeen is concerned. “But they didn’t marry till he was twenty-four,” she reasons, “and there were a good many years in-between when she was entirely wrapped up in…someone else. Why do you ask?” she wonders.

I shake my head, uncertain why I felt compelled to bring such a matter to her attention. “A woman told me last night that your father proposed to her,” I confess. “Before your mom, of course, and she turned him down.”

She tips her head a little, considering this. “I used to think he must have loved Hazelle,” she tells me. “Gale’s mom, I mean. They’re some degree of cousins and she used to tan deerskins for him, so they interacted a lot when they were younger, and she’s so very beautiful to boot. But that never quite made sense,” she admits. “Dad had a little sister who died right after she was born, and I think that's really what Hazelle became: a sort of substitute Laurel.”

 _Laurel Everdeen,_ I echo silently, and try to think why that name feels faintly familiar. I never, to my knowledge, even knew that there _had_ been a sister. Did Jack immortalize her as a heroine in one of his old tales, perhaps; one that I had the pleasure of hearing at some festival or other?

“I barely remember him,” Prim muses, distantly and a little sad. “The bits I _do_ remember make up a sort of fairytale figure – a voice that made the birds fall silent, hunting with a handmade bow and arrows, otherworldly good looks – but from all accounts, that's truly what he was.”

“You favor him, you know,” I tell her, because it’s entirely possible no one ever has, but she shrugs away the compliment.

“I see the Seam more clearly in my Merchant looking-glass,” she says. “My eyes aren't always blue.”

“I know,” I agree quietly. “Sometimes they're almost silver, like Katniss’s, or even green like your granny’s.”

She frowns – again, bothered by what I had intended as the highest of compliments – and puzzled, I ask, “Does it upset you – to hear how beautifully Seam you look sometimes?”

This wins a smile that actually crinkles her eyes at the corners. “Of course not,” she assures me. “But Katniss had me so neatly boxed up. Merchant-Prim, a miniature version of our mother – never mind she's more like Mom than I'll ever be. But she's like Dad too,” she adds needlessly, “in all the ways people notice, _especially_ the fairytale ones.”

She gives a little huff of frustration and studies her half-eaten sweet bun. “I sometimes wonder if Dad found me out in the woods on one of his foraging ventures,” she says softly. “Maybe in a mossy little hollow where truffles should be, and brought me home as a plaything for Katniss.”

I study her downturned face and contemplate what neither of us is asking and knows better than to. Because at the end of the day Prim has Jack Everdeen’s wide mouth and laughing eyes – whatever color they might be at any given moment – which is all the proof of paternity required. The gentleness, humor, and patience could have been picked up as a child, but the physical resemblance was hers from birth.

“So who is she?” she asks, almost abruptly, looking over at me once more. “This other woman Dad loved?”

“I don't think it's my place to say,” I hedge. “She didn’t say it was a secret, but I wouldn’t be surprised if no one else ever knew. It was kind of shocking, to say the least.”

“Give me a hint, at least,” she persists. “Or three guesses.”

I eye her for a long moment. “You think you’re nothing like your father,” I say at last. “But I bet you can guess it in one shot – who he would have singled out.”

She frowns and ponders this for what can’t be more than ten seconds, then looks back at me with raised brows and a strange, almost captivated expression. “Oh, that makes a _world_ of sense,” she breathes. “Unless – you don't think she’d just _say_ that,” she wonders, “because of Mom and her –?”

She breaks off quickly, but I dismiss this with a wave of one hand. “Don’t worry, I know about them too,” I assure her. “My mother spent yesterday morning with yours and was…unusually forthcoming when I got home. That's who you meant yesterday, isn’t it?” I ask. “People dancing around truths that would make everyone happy?”

“Mostly,” she replies. “To be honest, I don't know what I want to happen – or what even _can_ ,” she says. “Mom was livid about the ribbons on New Year’s night, but she was watching him from her bedroom window and I think she cried herself to sleep.”

“He really gave her _twenty-two red ribbons_?” I ask in hushed disbelief. “And his wife didn’t throw him out into the street?”

“There’s a certain degree of stealth inherent to unrequited sweethearts,” she reminds me wryly. “I think he hid them in a can of the special coffee he blends for her.”

“With almonds and spices?” I guess.

“Well, he wasn't the only one who had trouble getting out of bed at four o’clock in the morning,” she replies, and the missing pieces are tied up neatly as a New Year’s ribbon on a sweetheart’s strong arm.

Though exactly _how_ this twelve-year-old child discovered that a teenaged Janek Mellark used to share coffee with her mother when his work schedule required that they leave his bed in the wee hours, I’m sure I don’t want to know.

“Anyway, what about you?” she asks, shifting on the bench to face me fully. “Gale arrived at the shop yesterday looking like he’d been chewed up and spit out, which I presume is your doing. What happened?”

“I wouldn’t let him kiss me,” I answer. “For the ribbon, and his mother.”

Despite the fact that I’ve carefully given nothing away by these words, she grins like a delighted fool. “You will _eventually_ let him kiss you, right?” she wheedles. “Maybe when you've been married for a year or two and you can actually stand to be in the same room with him? I think the honor of kissing you would be a fair prize for living under the same roof for two years and managing to not kill each other.”

“Stop it,” I warn, but lightly, and she grins wider still, hopping up from the bench and tugging me to my feet.

“Posy thinks you’re the prettiest thing there ever was, you know,” she reveals, curling her arm around mine and heading us off toward the school. “She’s surprisingly articulate for being a whisker away from five. She says you’re prettier than me, her ma, and Katniss – in that order.”

“That’s flattering company to be in,” I chuckle, “though I think she’s got it a bit backwards.”

“Vick is half in love with you himself,” she goes on. “No surprise there, I trust, and Rory very gravely ‘approves of’ you, but he doesn’t think Gale stands a chance with the mayor’s only daughter.”

“He might be surprised,” I reply. “My father brought up the possibility of Gale proposing at breakfast this morning.”

Her jaw slacks in startled delight. “How did _that_ come up?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “Gale’s been coming around for years now with his wild strawberries; maybe Dad thinks he’ll get them for free if he gives me to Gale in marriage.”

The thought is so ridiculous we both laugh, and heartily.

“Truly, though,” she persists. “Where did that even _come_ from?”

I shrug. “I turn seventeen in February, is my best guess,” I say. “Which effectively makes me marriageable, after this year’s Reaping.”

“And your dad really thinks Gale would ask?” she wonders.

“Or that _I_ would,” I add dryly.

She laughs so hard at this that she has to hold her ribs with her free arm. “That’s probably _exactly_ how it’ll happen!” she gasps out between giggles. “One day in the woods you’ll just turn to Gale and ask him – no, _tell_ him! – to marry you!”

I still my feet and check her merry progress with a lurch. “I _can_ walk to school alone, you know,” I remind her.

“No – stay, Madge,” she pleads, hugging our linked arms together. “I never really had a sister to joke with, you know. Katniss was like some fierce, beautiful wild thing, sniffing around me for dangers and growling when she thought she scented them and bringing home dead things for me to eat – or half-dead things for me to fix up and keep as pets.”

I grin at her highly appropriate imagery and resume walking once more. “And how do you suppose Peeta’s faring with _that_ under his roof?” I tease.

“I suspect a great deal of pouncing and nipping and nose-pokes,” she replies, quite seriously. “She’s like the little vixen in this story Dad used to tell, who met a golden-haired prince under an apple tree and fell in love with him as he tamed her. She’ll have determined by now that this big gentle boy-creature has no intention of hurting her and she’ll have accepted the food and shelter he provides, but beyond that she has the very _faintest_ idea of what relationships look like, and most of that comes from watching wild things in the woods. So in all likelihood Peeta’s flat on his back at this very moment,” she posits, her eyes dancing. “With my beautiful wild sister perched on his chest like a happy fox, nibbling at his nose or neck or ears with absolutely no idea that she’s doing anything that might be perceived as loverlike in the least.”

“Poor Peeta,” I sigh, because I’ve suspected similar interactions myself, and the boy whose patience rivals a stone’s must be half-dead between the bliss of Katniss’s feral displays of affection and his desperation to keep their relationship off the Capitol radar.

“Poor Peeta indeed,” she agrees, resting her head against my shoulder. “You know, then? About how careful he has to be?”

“A little,” I reply. “I’m guessing he’s on your list of people ‘dancing around truths’ too.”

“Right at the top,” she concurs sadly. “He has a life-or-death kind of reason, at least, but that doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking.”

“How would _you_ do it?” I wonder, tipping my head against hers. “If you were constantly around the person you loved with all your heart but you couldn’t tell them?”

This time she stops us and turns to face me directly. “I’d wear his ribbon every single day until I _could_ tell him,” she says plainly, and there’s a resolve in her eyes, firm and fierce, not unlike the one I saw so often in Katniss’s – in regard to matters of survival, though, and not the heart. “And you?” she asks.

“I suppose I’ll keep telling myself I don’t love him and eventually it’ll come true,” I reply, as stoically as I can, and to my surprise, Prim grins as though I’ve just given her the best piece of news she’s had in months.

“Denial is always the first stage,” she informs me gleefully. “You’re off to a grand start. By the bye,” she adds, heading us down the street once more, “why _did_ Mrs. Mellark tell you that Dad asked her to marry him?”

“In essence: so I wouldn’t make the same mistake,” I reveal, very deliberately focusing on the snow beneath my boots, but I can literally _hear_ her smile in response.

“And she doesn’t care two pins for the Hawthornes,” she reminds me. “Which means she either thinks Gale is something really special or that you two belong together. Or both.”

“Stop it,” I warn, but affectionately. Having never had a sister, let alone a younger one, I daresay I’m adapting to this new “sibling dynamic” quite well.

“You want to come over for that phosphate after school?” she teases, poking my ribs with her free hand. “If we time it just right, you won’t have to drink it alone.”

“Well, you _did_ say Vick was half in love with me, and I _did_ promise to accompany him next time,” I answer sweetly. “And he’s what, eight or nine? Younger lovers are all the rage this season, I hear.”

“Stop it,” she says, but with equal affection as my own warning a moment ago. “And Vick is ten, by the bye.”

“Splendid!” I declare. “Then you two can hang out in the primary school yard, playing jump-rope and hopscotch while Marko and I sit in the Hob, drinking white liquor and bemoaning the long years between ourselves and our beloveds.”

“That will become decidedly less funny when I tell Gale you have a crush on his baby brother,” she informs me, but she’s clearly teetering on the brink of laughter.

“I suspect every female in Twelve has a crush on Vick,” I chuckle. “The Hawthornes are quite the attractive brood – except for that gloomy, glowering oldest son. Even Rory should be decent-looking once he outgrows this weedy stage,” I reason, “but Gale’s beyond hope of ever growing handsome.”

“That’s right,” she agrees playfully, and hugs my arm with hers. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

Life appears to have returned to normal at school this morning, with a few lingering sweetheart ribbons on an arm here or in a braid there. Columbine and her friends are back to ignoring me as usual, though every now and again a whispered conversation stops when I pass or look over, or I feel a stare when my head is bent over my schoolwork.

I’m back to being comfortably invisible, but today that cherished solitude closes around me like one of Gale’s efficient snares, trapping me in the company of my own thoughts, which are less than soothing at present. Whatever my personal feelings toward Gale may be, I ended things very badly with him yesterday. I doubt he plans to renege on Sunday, as Seam folk take their bargains so seriously, but a such a proud, angry boy might get a lifetime’s worth of pleasure out of sending me away when I arrive. The mayor’s daughter, drabbed down more than usual in Seam-worthy clothes and thinking she actually stands a chance of being his hunting partner, sent home in utter humiliation. He might even play it like neither of our conversations ever took place and feign utter – condescending – confusion at the mere prospect of taking me to the woods with him.

I won’t ask, of course – won’t call on him to confirm the plan – because to do so would be even more embarrassing, and whatever else we said outside my house, the logistics of Sunday’s venture were laid out quite clearly. But that doesn’t stop me thinking about it, so distractedly that I almost jump out of my skin when Jude swiftly plomps himself into the chair beside mine at lunch.

“Steady there, huntress,” he says cheerfully. “I come in peace, bearing news and wages.”

He surreptitiously passes me a small butcher-paper parcel, which I unwrap to find one of Rooba’s all-but-unattainable bacon buns. She makes them regularly but only for her kids and any sweethearts of the moment, never to sell, and by all accounts the Mellarks have never managed to capture the magic one frank and stocky butcher-woman crafts in her kitchen with the most ordinary of ingredients. I’ve never even _seen_ one of these before and the aroma of butter, onions, and the very best bacon to be had in Twelve makes my indifferent stomach yelp to attention.

“What’s this for?” I whisper, as though Jude just handed me a weapon or something equally dangerous to be caught in possession of, and he grins with sheer glee.

“There’s more where that came from, if you play your cards right,” he informs me. “Mom’s frying Scotch eggs on Sunday, if that’s any enticement.”

My mouth floods with saliva at the mere suggestion and I no longer wonder how Rooba has the hungry, hardworking men of this district falling at her feet. She sells small batches of cold Scotch eggs – hard-boiled eggs wrapped in flavorful pork sausage, then breaded and fried – in the shop from time to time and my family buys them whenever we can beat the voracious Peacekeepers, but I’ve heard that her _hot_ Scotch eggs, crisp from the fryer, can bring tears to your eyes.

“Hot or cold?” I challenge him, a little desperately. “Anyone can nab a cold Scotch egg at the right time with the right price, but a hot one is another matter entirely.”

“Who said we were talking about _one_?” he counters wickedly, and I’d throttle him if I wasn’t so tempted by his promise.

“Tell me what I did to get the bacon bun, _then_ I’ll decide if it’s worth it to try for these eggs,” I tell him sternly. “Bearing in mind that I’m not going to kiss anybody.”

“I suspect that’s how you got the bacon bun,” he remarks. “But do correct me if I’m wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” I hiss, leaning in to hide my suddenly hot face, and Jude lays a sympathetic hand on mine.

“Brognars know courtship,” he explains. “I saw your boy at the beginning and end of yesterday, red ribbon on his sleeve all the while, and something massive had changed by suppertime. I’ve never seen him so dark and silent, and this is Gale Hawthorne we’re talking about.”

I dodge his implication of a failed kiss to interject my own concern. “Did he say anything about not having a partner anymore?”

“Are you kidding?” he scoffs. “Even if you ditched him, he’d rather die than have to retract what he told everybody yesterday about the pair of you hunting together. And for the record,” he adds in a quieter tone, “he's still wearing your ribbon today. He tied it through a buttonhole of his parka.”

“Not _my_ ribbon,” I insist, even as every nerve ending in my body comes alive at this news, tingling all the way out to my fingertips with hope and hunger.

“Did you give it to him?” he asks patiently.

“Not like that,” I demur, but Jude isn’t having it for a minute.

“Madge, half the ribbons you saw yesterday were from ‘not like that’ exchanges,” he points out, “and we all know what that _really_ means. Where’s his?” he asks curiously.

“It's not the day after New Year’s,” I remind him.

Jude smiles, as though this answer pleased him somehow. “And again I ask: where is it?”

We exchange a long look, Jude’s patient and mine resigned, and I tug up the cuff of my left sweater-sleeve, just high enough to reveal the edge of a red satin ribbon wrapped around my forearm.

The heart side, like wedding rings – for whatever that means.

He obligingly tugs the cuff back down and smooths it into place. “You know,” he says lightly, looking into my eyes once more. “Prim’s still wearing hers in her hair.”

“Prim's affection is mutual,” I counter. “And openly so.”

“Gale Hawthorne tied your sweetheart ribbon through a buttonhole of the coat he wears all day, every day,” he says, “even after whatever brutal rejection you dealt him yesterday afternoon, and you really think he’s not in love with you?”

My mind grasps onto a flicker of practical sense where these troublesome ribbons are concerned and I quickly shape it into a reply. “It's a bargain thing,” I reason. “We exchanged them when we struck our business partnership, not as sweetheart’s tokens, and that’s why we keep wearing them. It has nothing to do with liking or love.”

“Of course,” he replies without agreeing in the least and pats my hand like a child’s. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

“Go away, Jude,” I implore him wearily, but he only closes his hand around mine and reminds me, “But I haven’t told you how to get the eggs yet.”

“I can live quite happily without Scotch eggs or Gale Hawthorne,” I inform him.

“But you’d be over the moon to have both at once,” he informs me in turn, and my scowl is all the affirmation he needs. “And the requirement is simple: just come by the shop after your hunting trip, the both of you. Even if you don’t shoot anything, Gale’s bound to catch a couple rabbits in his snares. Mom will offer less for them than Gale expects while throwing in the Scotch eggs, which he’ll try to refuse in favor of a higher price, but of course you don’t haggle with my mama, so he’ll inevitably accept her offer and pass the eggs on to you.”

“And that scene is worth a certain quantity of hot Scotch eggs?” I puzzle.

“Seeing the pair of you at the back door after your first day in the woods together is worth _all_ the Scotch eggs,” he replies with feeling. “I doubt either of you will come back under the fence as the same people who left, but I’m especially curious what it’ll do to him, and Mom’s conceded to my whim.”

“Is this still about taking ‘the glower-pot’ down a peg or two?” I wonder softly. “Or are you really hoping I’ll wound something deeper than his pride?”

“I’m mischievous, not malicious,” he replies with slight affront. “I’d rather no injuries were sustained whatsoever, save perhaps some bumps or bruises to his pride, but you’ve already dealt him a harsher blow than that.”

“I’m not about to let a boy kiss me just because we exchanged a pair of ribbons, and not as sweethearts,” I retort, and Jude smiles gently, his suspicions confirmed at last.

“But he _asked_ ,” he points out, and gets up from the table. “Think about that as you go about your week.”

I think about little _but_ Gale’s quiet request as the day wears on. It’s only Wednesday, and I’m not sure how I’ll last the rest of the week in this state of inner turmoil, let alone make it through Sunday’s trip to the woods with the angry boy I’m painfully aware that I love.

I duck out of school quickly after the last bell, intent on evading Prim, picking up the plum pastries for my mother, and holing up in the sanctuary of my bedroom as soon as I get home, but my plan is derailed almost from the first, when I rush into the bakery to meet Mr. Mellark’s apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for your trouble, Madge, but your mother stopped in herself this morning,” he says. “And I haven’t seen her out and about of a morning in so long, I couldn’t give her those plum pockets fast enough.”

“Was she alone?” I ask, determined to glean something useful from this wasted trip, and the flicker in his eyes gives me the answer before his lips.

“I understand your father walked her to the apothecary before going to work himself and Alys Everdeen walked her home,” he says lightly. “Alys came in with her, to help carry parcels. Maddi hasn’t – your mother hasn’t – come to the bakery in quite some time,” he explains, “and she was eager to purchase several of her old favorites that we still offer.”

“Of course,” I reply, unsurprised by any of this, and make my way home. When I arrive, the kitchen is bustling with supper preparations – apparently my mother’s good day has yet to run out of steam – and one counter is lined with bakery parcels, all of them clearly having been opened at least once to admit eager, if elegant, fingers.

Well, if my mother’s increased her sugar intake by leaps and bounds and her headaches still haven’t returned, I may as well celebrate too.

I’ve just fished out a puff pastry with a well of chocolate and cream at its center when I hear a knock at the side door, polite but direct. No deliveries are expected at this hour and the kitchen staff is too insulated by their own noisy tasks to hear any callers, so I go to the door myself, pastry in hand, and open it to find Rory Hawthorne waiting, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and looking deeply uncomfortable.

“’Afternoon, Miss Undersee,” he greets me with genuine, if awkward, courtesy, and gives me his deferential bob of the head. “I, um…I’d like to know if you’re still planning on coming over Sunday morning for…um, the business. See, Ma wants to make sure we have enough breakfast for you,” he elaborates in a rush. “Not that you _have to_ come over early and eat with us, of course; you’ll surely have your own breakfast at home, and a better one, and you might not even be planning to come over at all…”

He trails off miserably and I smile in spite of myself. It’s a neat ruse, if still ridiculously transparent. Mrs. Hawthorne might well feel obligated to feed Gale’s new hunting partner, especially if it’s a Merchant girl, but that’s assuredly not why Rory’s here, nor was it his mother who sent him.

I hand him my uneaten pastry with a curious glow of triumph. “Tell Gale I said everything I had to say about Sunday when I saw him last,” I reply. “If he has further questions, he can come 'round and ask me himself.”

“Ma told him you’d say that,” Rory assures me, his misery giving way to gratification, especially since he’s been rewarded, and deliciously, simply for playing messenger. “Would it help if Vick asked?” he wonders, and adds quickly, “It’s _me_ wondering, not Gale. I know you like Vick,” he explains with a noncommittal shrug. “I’m just trying to save some time.”

I laugh gently. “I _do_ like Vick,” I affirm, “and he’d probably wheedle two pastries out of me with less effort than you put in, but no. It wouldn’t help any to send your little brother.”

“I figured,” he says. “Thanks anyway, Miss Undersee.”

I ascend to my room with a second pastry, feeling at once thrilled and strangely at peace for the first time since my argument with Gale last night. Not only is he worried that I might have changed my mind about Sunday – maybe about our partnership altogether – he was willing to look a little foolish to find out, or try at least. He’d never come knocking at the mayor’s mansion to ask the mayor’s only daughter if she still plans on sneaking under the fence to go hunting with him, but after telling all the Merchants in town that I would be his hunting partner for the foreseeable future, he would be subject to more than a little ridicule if I didn’t turn up.

I sit on my bed, nibbling thoughtfully at the buttery puff pastry. One day into this new life and I’ve already received one of Rooba’s impossible-to-obtain bacon buns – which proved as wildly delicious as the rumors promised – and now there’s the promise of hot Scotch eggs on Sunday afternoon, just for stopping by the butcher’s. _I haven’t even walked into the woods yet and I’m already being rewarded for my efforts,_ I think with a chuckle.

I push my left sleeve up to the elbow, fully exposing the ribbon wound around my forearm, and wonder why Gale thought it necessary to wear my ribbon in such an obvious place. It’ll certainly occasion comment, if it hasn’t already, and what will he reply? For that matter, what _did_ he reply yesterday, to the inevitable curiosity about the ribbon tied _over_ his coat sleeve? I still firmly believe he had half a dozen or more tied around his arm beneath his coat, but he wore mine prominently, and someone must have asked about it. Did he call me a secret admirer, as I did him, or did he treat the ribbon as exactly what it was: the binding object in a business arrangement?

I reluctantly go down to join my parents for supper, wary of my father resuming the conversation I walked out on this morning, and am startled to be directed to the sunroom. The meal has been laid out on a blanket on the floor, where the mayor of District Twelve and his beautiful wife are currently sitting, surrounded by open bakery parcels, trading bites of their respective pastries and giggling like new sweethearts. My father has abandoned his jacket and tie and looks about ten years younger, and my mother has exchanged her downstairs elegance for a pretty calico dress that she surely hasn’t worn since before her sister died: cream-colored material patterned with tiny pink roses and swirling green vines in a girlish cut that still flatters her lean frame. She’s the very picture of a candymaker’s teenage daughter in the midst of a merry courtship, complete with stockinged feet tucked beneath one hip, pale hair woven loosely into one long braid with a red ribbon threaded through, and her sweetheart’s favorite plaid cap as a crowning touch.

“ _Lemons?_ ” my father laughs in disbelief as I approach. “What could he _possibly_ need with _a whole crate_ of lemons, let alone so badly that he ordered an express trip made just to retrieve them?”

“One suspects his companion had never tasted them before,” my mother replies, her eyes crinkling with positive mirth. “And you know how he likes to rectify matters like that.”

“Magpie!” my father calls cheerfully, noticing me at last. “We fancied a picnic supper, or as near as can be in this weather. Come join us!”

I look back and forth, dumbfounded, between the picnic spread and the two strangers seated ‘round it, who vaguely resemble my parents. “A whole crate of lemons?” I echo, the only part of their conversation that I can quite process.

“The beautiful Avox girl skied to town today – towed by the sleigh pony – to buy a crate of lemons from the grocer,” my mother explains, almost dreamily. “It makes quite the gesture, especially with their price in this season, and then she picked out a Katniss-sized calico dress at the mercantile. Naturally, we wondered if Peeta might be planning an indoor picnic for his sweetheart – _companion,_ ” she corrects, so fluidly it sounds like she had intended the slip. Those of us who know what the Capitol is about carefully veil the full extent of Peeta’s longing for Katniss while making no secret of any facet of his devotion to her. “Which immediately sounded like a delightful idea,” she concludes, waving a hand toward the roast chicken, potato salad, and golden-crusted pie awaiting our eager forks.

“Come, petal,” she beckons, patting the patch of blanket beside her. “You’ve been so grave and edgy lately. Have some supper and afterward the three of us will take a turn around the Square. Cook’s even made up hot chocolate for the walk, or after,” she angles, with a smile so enchanting I practically melt to sit beside her.

I’ve missed my mother desperately, especially this sweet, playful version that I see a few times a year at most, and I can’t resist leaning against her like the lonely child I still am in so many ways. “There now,” she declares with an affectionate chuckle, curling her arm around me and kissing the top of my head. “Now you’re stuck here,” she teases. “And your father dearly wants to ask you something.”

“I’m not in love with Gale Hawthorne,” I reply at once – it’s almost rote by now – and my father gives me a sympathetic smile.

“That’s not the question, but the nature is similar,” he admits. “Hawthorne’s application for new housing came up in committee this afternoon.”

I sit up a little, curious in spite of myself and valiantly fighting the shiver at the thought of living as close to Gale as I do to Prim, maybe closer. It would be so much easier for his mother to do her laundry runs if they lived in town, and of course, the proximity to school and the apothecary would be helpful to all of them.

“The Hawthornes would be the perfect test family for the converted Victor’s houses,” he goes on. “But even if everything _should_ line up for the remodel, I doubt work would start till after the Quell, with move-in at the Harvest Festival at the very earliest.”

“That’s not long at all,” I remark. “Less than a year, for such an unprecedented innovation. So what’s the problem?”

My father frowns. “For one, I hate to make a man wait a year for upgraded housing, especially in a winter like this one,” he replies.

“The Hawthornes are resourceful,” I remind him. “They’re quite capable of making do for another year, and winter’s practically half over.”

“There’s another option,” he says, but his frown remains. “We could grant Gale a residence of his own, in accordance with his increased income and in anticipation of the Victor’s remodel, but if – as is entirely possible – plans for said remodel fall through, that temporary residence would remain his designated dwelling for the foreseeable future.”

I consider this, puzzled as to why my father seems to be taking the matter so personally. Gale probably wouldn’t care for upgraded housing that didn’t accommodate his family, but there’s no law against overnighting with someone else in brutal weather, and the resourceful Hawthornes would surely find a way to use that additional residence, however small, to their best advantage. Gale’s mother might even be able to use it as a base for her laundry work, if it’s closer to town than their current home.

“So what’s the problem?” I persist, and my father’s frown softens into a sad, almost pitying smile.

“The problem,” he answers, “is that I have one precious child and I want to give her the very best life that I can, however she chooses to live it.”

I shake my head, still not quite there. “I don’t follow,” I say.

“Yes, you do,” my mother corrects gently, kissing the crown of my head. “Or you will, in a moment. Your father is trying to assign Gale a residence where he can bear to see _you_ live, without choosing something significantly above the boy’s current standing or drawing attention to you.”

“Dad!” I exclaim, sitting up straight, but the word comes out as a gasp. “Why on _earth_ would you–?”

“Please, magpie,” he stops me, but as gently as my mother addressed me a moment ago. “I’ve suspected something was stirring between you and Gale Hawthorne for the past two summers, and this new hunting scheme… I won’t insult either of you by implying it’s something that it’s not,” he says quietly, “but I’m not a blind fool. A few Sundays in the woods – even _one_ Sunday in the woods – might be sufficient to push one of you into a declaration, courting, and the rest. I spoke lightly of it this morning, but I have a strong, strange conviction you’ll be married this summer.”

“You’re mad, the pair of you,” I conclude, but breathlessly, because the very air seems to have vanished from this room, and my father leans forward to take both my hands in his.

“Not mad, sweetheart,” he assures me tenderly, “but fools, perhaps, for not having acted sooner. Answer me one question,” he bids, “and I’ll not say another word on the matter unless you raise it.”

I glance warily between my parents, both of whom are regarding me steadily, with neither mischief nor mirth. “What question?” I wonder.

“Do you love him?” my father asks.

His expression betrays nothing, neither eagerness nor dread nor teasing of any kind. It’s a solemn, serious question, almost ceremonial in nature – as though everyone in this room knows the answer but I need to declare it before the mayor of District Twelve to make it true, or binding.

“Yes,” I whisper, staring down at my hands, still held in my father’s. “I love Gale Hawthorne.”

It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud and strangely, they leave me like a burden.

“As I live and breathe,” my father marvels softly. “Things _are_ changing in District Twelve.

“And now, Maddi,” he says pleasantly to my mother, as though my answer to that question truly put an end to the whole matter, “I think I’m ready for some chicken.”

They dish out plates for each other and for me, and my father chuckles meaningfully as he pours out glasses of cold cider for each of us. “Well, there’s not a lemon to be had in all of Twelve,” my mother reminds him gaily, and their faces crease in a shared grin.

I feel profoundly out-of-place between these merry, playful strangers and try more than once to extricate myself and retreat upstairs with my plate, but neither of them is having it. “I haven’t spent an evening with my daughter in ages,” my mother entreats, threading fingers through mine to stay me, and she’s quite right. “Tell me about anything and everything,” she says earnestly. “What’s going on at school? You must be desperately lonely without Katniss. Is that why you want to go to the woods?” she wonders, dropping her voice instinctually. “Because it reminds you of her – or _he_ does?”

I sigh and lean against her once more. “Yes and no,” I admit. “I miss her so much it hurts, and nothing will ever make up for that.”

I worry for a moment that I misspoke – after all, my mother lost her twin sister; her own flesh and blood, to a brutal death in the last Quarter Quell, while Katniss is ensconced in love and luxury, however unreachable to me – but to my surprise, she nods in understanding and lays her cheek against my crown.

“Alys was all I had after Maysi died,” she murmurs. “I know how it is to be half in love with your beautiful best friend, only to have her suddenly, overnight, disappear from your life – not avoiding or rejecting you in any way,” she adds quickly, “but you’re part of the life she left behind, and inevitably you grow apart – or rather, she grows away from you.”

“Having Alys back in your mother’s daily life is the very best medicine,” my father remarks, leaning over to kiss her free hand with a smile. “It’s done a world of good for both of them already.”

I outwardly accept this at face value, never mind I know it’s not just Alys – it’s the prospect of _Janek and Alys_ – that’s affecting my mother at present and smile as I cut the point off my slice of plum custard pie. The flaky crust melts on my tongue like butter, and I wonder if this is where Marko Mellark is pouring the love he has to hide for some years still.

When our bellies are pleasantly full my parents shoo me off to the foyer to bundle up while they take the remains of our meal to the kitchen, and they meet me there a few minutes later, giggling and a little flushed, with fat flasks of hot chocolate and a small crock in hand.

“I know it’s ridiculous, but I want to bring Alys a slice of pie, like in the old days,” my mother explains with a sheepish smile, setting the crock beside her as she sits to pull on her boots, and my father cavalierly kneels to lace them up for her. He pecks her knee with a sound kiss when he’s done and I realize, with a scalding blush that burns all the way to my ears, that it may be a _very_ good thing Katniss didn’t take my mother’s contraceptives to the woods with her.

It’s not particularly late – not yet 7:00 – but most of Twelve will already be in for the night, especially the Seam residents. They tuck up, if not in, earlier than town folk, especially in winter, between the shortage of electricity, the need to conserve fuel for heat, not mere light, and the exhausting twelve-hour shifts so many put in at the mines.

I find myself suddenly, desperately glad that Gale no longer works in the mines and wonder if he still turns in early, to make for an earlier start in the woods the next day.

My mother leaves us at the apothecary with an apologetic promise to “not be a moment,” and to my surprise, once she’s been admitted through the shop door by Mrs. Everdeen, who must be down finishing her figures for the night, my father nods toward the dark shopfront of the bakery and remarks, “I’d like a quick word with Janek. Do you mind if I duck in for a moment?”

My father and the baker have been friends since childhood, if not as deeply devoted to each other as my mother and Mrs. Everdeen, but I know full well he’s not stopping by to compliment the pastries or exchange the news of the day. “Are you going to admonish or encourage him?” I ask lightly, and my father shakes his head in reply.

“I don't know,” he admits. “Divorce is possible, especially since Raisa is unlikely to bear more children –” in true Panem fashion, it’s markedly easier to get a new wife if you can prove that your current one can’t produce any more kids, though next to no one has ever been enticed by such a prospect – “but twenty-two years is a long time,” he concludes. “A long time not to care two pins about the woman in your bed who gave you three strong sons, and to long after the woman who rejected you entirely when you were kids.”

He shrugs, an oddly helpless gesture. “I just want the lay of the land,” he explains. “There may well be nothing worth telling,” and he heads down the narrow alley between the houses, toward the back door of the bakery.

“’Evening, sir,” calls a man’s cheerful voice from overhead, echoed by the same words from a girl, and my father looks up to see the younger pair of resident lovers at their respective second-floor windows, sharing their nightly chocolate. On the right are the head and shoulders of a shawl-swathed Primrose Everdeen, a steaming mug in her cupped hands as she leans out, and on the left is the broad upper body of Marko Mellark, perched precariously by a hip on the sill inside, forming a charming tableau that would not be out of place in a picture-book of rustic fairy tales.

“Dad should still be down in the kitchen,” the latter goes on, waving a hand down toward the back door. “Or is there something I can help you with, Mr. Mayor?”

“Just saying hello to a friend,” my father dismisses convincingly. “Good evening, Marko; good evening, Prim.”

He disappears round the back of the bakery and I duck into the shadows at the mouth of the alley, unnoticed and wildly curious to hear what sorts of sweet nothings these mismatched lovers exchange from their windows at night.

“Talk to me,” Prim insists, her voice hushed but resilient. “I know I upset you this morning but I don’t know why.”

“You didn’t upset me,” he replies, and there’s a startling change in his voice from when he addressed my father a moment before. Marko is known and loved as a jovial young bachelor, almost ridiculously good-natured, but the way he addresses Prim in private conversation is somber, passionate, and tender; undeniably loverlike. “You could never upset me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she replies, once more undeterred by his compliments, however genuine, and I stifle my chuckle with the back of a mittened hand.

“ _I_ upset me,” he says quietly. “Can you accept that?”

“Not without some kind of explanation,” she answers. “Are you sorry you gave me the ribbon?”

“Never,” he replies, and his tone can leave no doubt for anyone in earshot.

“But it _was_ the ribbon,” she persists. “Do you want me to stop wearing it?”

“ _Never_ ,” he says again, and there’s a fierce edge to it this time, sharp with longing.

“Good, because I don’t intend to,” she replies, so frankly that I press both hands over my mouth to prevent any sound of amusement, or astonishment, from escaping. “Then what is it?” she beseeches. “Marko, tell me.”

They regard each other in silence for a long moment, then he ducks inside to set down his mug and leans back out again, further this time, extending his strong right arm across the three-foot divide between their houses.

Prim dips back in to abandon her own mug as well as her shawl, then she reaches out to close her right hand around his, or as much of it as she can. That alone is beautifully startling – that she actually _takes_ his hand, not merely lays her own in it – and then he guides that hand over to his left upper arm: the place where her ribbon was tied yesterday, now conspicuously ribbonless.

She rubs her fingertips against his sweater sleeve, as though searching for something beneath, and gives a soft, exquisite gasp when she finds it.

“I’d raise it like a banner if I could,” Marko says huskily, closing his hand over hers and pressing it against his arm, where unmistakably, her ribbon must reside. “Don’t you know that by now?”

But my mother emerges from the apothecary shopfront just then, bearing a small paper pouch in exchange for her pie-crock, so I never hear Prim’s reply.

“Lavender lozenges,” she tells me reverently, opening the bag for us both to take a long blissful sniff of the aromatic honey discs within. “Alys doesn’t want me to overexert – too much too soon – so she recommended a few of these, perhaps melted into some warm milk, and a modest bedtime.

“And this is for you,” she says, to my surprise, producing a tiny tin from her coat pocket. “It’s a beeswax-and-lavender salve. She used to make it for Jack and then Katniss in cold weather, to heal chapped cheeks and cracked lips.”

“My lips are fine,” I observe, while not ungrateful for the gift, and my mother grins impishly.

“Well, it’s not only _your_ lips you need to worry about now, is it?” she teases, and kisses my nose as she slips the salve into my pocket.

“I thought we weren’t talking about Gale anymore,” I remind her sternly. “Not after I answered your question.”

“That was your father’s promise – and _his_ question,” she points out with undisguised amusement. “I knew you loved Gale before you realized it, and I only have one child too. I didn’t get to watch my sister – or my best friend – merrily wed their childhood sweethearts,” she says without bitterness, “and my own marriage was just…inevitable. I loved your father but after Maysi, there was so little of me left for things like humor and romance and joy. He was so patient,” she tells me, something I understand better than she knows, “but our courtship, such as it was, ended when Maysi died. Then and there he became a devoted husband, just waiting on some documents and a muted sort of toasting to make it official.”

“Well, you’re certainly making up for that now,” I remark lightly, and to my astonishment, she blushes.

“I love him,” she says softly. “And for the first time in over twenty years, I have it in me to act on it. You can’t blame your father for being beside himself at the prospect of romancing his wife all over again.”

“Neither she can,” says the mayor of Twelve, sweeping up to curl an arm around each of us and press frosty kisses to our cheeks. “I knew Janek was holding out on us,” he informs us, waving a tiny bakery parcel in each hand. “There were two plum pockets hiding in the kitchen – little ones, meant to go half-price tomorrow – so I took them off his hands for the two prettiest girls that I know.”

My mother leans her cheek against his and closes her eyes for a blissful moment. “It occurs to me, Myron,” she murmurs, “that we’ve been taking Madge around like a pet on a lead tonight, purely to attend to our own interests. Do you suppose we could manage a stop for her?”

“Too right you are,” he agrees, but I catch something ever-so-slightly mischievous in his tone. “Let’s finish our round of the Square. The mercantile will be open for a few more minutes, and perhaps the creamery.”

At present I want nothing from either of those businesses, but something tells me neither of them is our actual destination. My father links arms with both of us and we stroll silently past the shopfronts, some still lit for the attention of passersby and most of those still bedecked with their festive New Year’s displays – minus ribbons, of course, and a little thinner than they started out, thanks to last-minute purchases.

“I might bring home Scotch eggs on Sunday,” I reveal as we pass the butcher’s, where boisterous laughter escapes the upstairs windows, even through double-paned glass and insulating drapes. “Hot ones, if all goes well.”

“Heaven!” my father cries, his face veritably glowing at the prospect of such wages. “I don’t suppose you could cast your eyes and your heart in Jude Tolliver’s direction?” he wonders wistfully.

“He’s half Seam,” my mother points out, clearly teasing. “Which is _almost_ what you want, plus he’s comfortably off and as sweet as they come – _and_ there’d be bacon buns into the deal.”

“He probably wouldn’t say no,” I respond in kind. “He _did_ say I was the prettiest Merchant girl in the district – but then, he seems much more taken with the idea of Gale Hawthorne and me than having me for his own.”

“Pity,” my father chuckles. “There’s always his cousin Luka.”

“Soundly and surely taken,” I inform them both, shaking my head. “By someone I’m frankly dying to see if he’ll manage to win.”

“Do we know her?” my mother asks curiously.

“Better than anyone else in the district,” I suspect. “But for all that: not well at all.”

My father draws us to a stop in front of what was once Twelve’s thriving barber shop, some fifteen or so years ago, now a dusty husk with boarded-up windows and a lonely striped pole, presently crowned with a little hillock of snow, to identify what function the building used to serve.

“Men used to go in before their toastings – and proposals,” my mother recalls sadly. “The old mayor went for a shave every morning on his way to work, and many Peacekeepers too – the officers, at least.”

“But who has money to pay for a shave and a haircut now?” I murmur, drawn into her reverie. The men of Twelve are entirely capable of shaving themselves, and everyone’s got a wife, mother, or sister to provide a cursory trim when they decide their hair has gotten too long. Unless you’re getting married or otherwise have occasion to be photographed, there’s no need to seek out more cosmetic barbering, and even then there’s usually someone in the neighborhood with the necessary skills to oblige.

“It’s got fine windows – or will, once the boards are off,” my father muses. “The shop’s in great shape, really. A person could have any business they liked there – even a music school.”

I turn to look at him, curious and confused at once. His mother served as music teacher at both of Twelve’s schools for some twenty years, when the powers that be decided to pare down the music program to a special assembly taking place just a few times a year and relegated her to teaching history instead. My father was a teacher then himself, with hopes of succeeding his mother in the music program, and instead ended up with secondary level reading and grammar.

Sometimes I suspect the Capitol hand-picked him for mayor because he was so unobtrusive and ordinary: a music teacher’s son, soft-spoken and rather unexceptional in appearance, if pleasant enough to look at. No one's likely to rally ‘round Myron Undersee, the quiet balding man who used to teach the dullest subjects in the curriculum, let alone foment a rebellion around him.

The piano in our house belonged to his family since long before the Dark Days. My grandmother taught private lessons from her home just off the Square and her pupils included the Donner twins, who stuck around till Aunt Maysi got bored and my mother discovered that the piano teacher had a son, who was ever so much more interesting than scales and sonatinas.

My father taught me to play the piano in his turn, beginning when I was five years old. He’s a skilled musician, if not an exciting one – no Jack Everdeen, with his silver voice and quicksilver fingers dancing over dulcimer frets – but he’s a patient teacher, and a very good one.

I frown, suddenly, deeply troubled by this talk of a music school in the old barber shop. “Dad…are they making you step down?” I whisper.

The end of a district mayor’s term isn’t the sort of thing you usually have much warning of, and you don’t often get a peaceful retirement. My father has carefully managed not to ruffle too many feathers on any side, so the only reason I can think for him being made to step down is that the Capitol has chosen some other local businessman to take his place and more actively advance their interests in Twelve.

“Heavens, no!” my father exclaims, as though the very thought is laughable. “Everyone’s remarkably happy in Twelve at present, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Then who’s starting the music school?” I puzzle.

“Well, it wouldn't _have to_ be a music school,” he hedges with a little smile. “It could be any sort of business you like. The way Twelve’s running at present, a coffee and tea parlor might do quite well. Bring in pastries from Mellarks’, a few daily confections from your uncle Galbraith –”

“Strawberries when they’re in season,” my mother supplies meaningfully. “And of course, there are living quarters above. I never had occasion to go up, but I expect they’ll be pleasant enough.”

I shake off my father’s arm and step back to gape at them both, comprehending at last. “You want to put Gale Hawthorne in a house _on the Square_?” I demand, equally shocked and horrified.

“You’re entitled to a new designated dwelling when you get married,” my mother reminds me gently. “That’s a factor that has to go into the decision too.”

“And did _that_ come up in committee today?” I wonder, looking sharply at my father.

“It’s a _factor_ , magpie,” he says, echoing my mother with an apologetic smile. “And before you get any angrier, I didn’t bring you here to rehash the matter of your sweetheart again. I wanted to share an idea I had, nothing more.”

It’s almost impossible to remain angry at either of my parents, and my breath leaves me in an explosive sigh. In a way, he’s quite right to bring this up. I haven’t been raised to a trade, aside from the music lessons, and when I finish school and pass my last Reaping, if my father continues as mayor, I’ll be expected to move on into an occupation and eventually a home of my own, something I’ve thought of quite a bit of late.

On very good and bad days I tell myself that the rebellion may well happen before then, in which case none of my planning will matter. We’ll either be blown to bits or working so hard to rebuild our world from scratch, there won’t be time to find the ideal job for a mayor’s daughter with no trade training to speak of.

On all the days in-between, I think about things like clerical work at the Justice Building, music lessons – and hunting and foraging. Gale makes enough at it to keep himself and his family in relative comfort – luxury, really, by Seam standards – so surely I could maintain a small income from such work as well. The Justice Building is far preferable to the mines but I still don’t want to work there, even if my father’s current rank makes me the top applicant for any position they’ll grant to a district citizen. And in Twelve, if you don’t take the mines or the Justice Building, you’re generally left with three choices: marry a Merchant boy with a family business and work for them, find a business without enough family members to run it and get them to take you on, or cobble together your own business and operate under the radar at the Hob.

My father’s suggestion is unusual to say the least, but with the Everdeens back in the apothecary and with a paid forager to boot – through substantial help from our resident Victor, of course – the idea of the mayor’s daughter moving into the old barber shop and opening some business or other therein doesn’t seem half so far-fetched.

It would be a short walk from the apothecary at the end of the day – and a quick one, with empty packs in hand. Gale could be in my arms and in our bed before half the district was home from school.

I shake this image from my head, my cheeks burning, and think instead of the proximity to my parents, and the opportunities such a place would provide. If my father was allowed to step down at the inevitable end of his term instead of quietly disappearing altogether, he could help me run a music school, and my mother would be practically next-door neighbors with her brother and his family at the sweet-shop.

“It’s a good idea,” I tell my father quietly, and assure myself that I’m thinking only of him and my mother, not the dark, beautiful husband I will never have.

We finish our loop of the Square in a leisurely fashion, nibbling at buttery puff pastry and taking long decadent sips of hot chocolate from the flasks as our boots crunch comfortingly in the crisp-crusted snow. My father makes a very good show of refusing bites of the plum pockets, having bought them expressly for my mother and me, but he quickly, cheerfully capitulates, and we return home with icy noses and warm, happy bellies all around.

I wish my parents an affectionate good-night in the foyer and head upstairs to nestle between coal-warmed sheets, rooting about for the warmest patches with my chilly toes. Enveloped in comfort and affection as I am tonight, Gale Hawthorne is quite the last thing on my mind, and I’m settling blissfully into the pillows when my mother knocks softly and comes in, bearing a teacup of warm milk with a lavender lozenge melted in.

“You need a restful night, petal,” she soothes, stroking my hair back behind one ear with exquisite, feathery brushes of her fingers.

I know I won’t need anything to help me sleep tonight, but the gesture is so sweet and unexpected that tears bead at the corners of my eyes and I quickly drink the full measure down. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, leaning up to receive her kiss on my forehead.

I sink drowsily back into my pillow, her gentle sleep tonic lingering on my tongue, and dream of lavender…

_Fresh-cut lavender – a sweetheart’s token, tied with a red ribbon – in a chipped cup on the piano, its powdery fragrance stirred by a cool breeze to fill the parlor… rich lavender balm rubbed into a lover’s wind-chapped lips by a beloved’s thorough fingertip, only to be kissed away with a laugh… the sharp, heady scent of bruised lavender: a lush, living patch growing wild in the woods, crushed beneath the tangled feet – or is it the bodies? – of trysting lovers, gasping as they entwine… a toasting loaf, fragrant with lavender, halved with a hunting knife and dipped now in honey, now in sweet strawberry wine… lavender buds sprinkled between the crisp sheets of a bridal bed, swept aside with a chuckle by an impatient dusky hand… bundles of dried lavender steeping in a tub of creamy water to soothe the tenderness of the new bride – or is it a new mother? The tiny body cradled to her breast is still wrinkled and ruddy from birth, and she laughs – or cries – as she brushes stray lavender buds from her baby’s wet black hair…_

_He wants kids,_ echoes Vick Hawthorne’s voice over this tableau. _He’s already in love. Wild things need bread and soft words and shyness._

I wake with tears in my eyes, one arm curled to my chest and the other hand cradling my belly, and am more grateful than I can express to find Prim waiting downstairs to walk me to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly sorry for the lack of Gadge interaction in this chapter (which I know disappointed a few readers in the previous chapter, and they at least got a conversation in that one). This chapter was supposed to get them through their first visit to the woods together or at least _to_ it, but all these other details came rushing in and there are still a few significant things lying in wait before that anticipated Sunday morning. That said: while Gadge will always be the focus of this fic, there will be a bit of "secondhand" Gadge in-between their encounters.
> 
> And on a sidenote, I didn't set out to make Marko/Prim, Janek/Alys, Jack/Raisa, or Mayor/Mrs. Undersee secondary ships but they keep sneaking their way into the story and it feels rather fitting, since this fic shows Twelve in the absence of Peeta and Katniss and there are a lot of moving pieces on the board. I'm painfully aware that Primko isn't everyone's cup of tea and I truly hope no one is offended by their continued appearance in this fic.


	4. Of Courtship and Soporifics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, unrelenting depression occasionally lets me out from under the rock to work on Gadge fic. Hope okay. :/

“Your mother is a witch,” I declare by way of greeting, and none too kindly, and Prim gives much the same reply as my own mother when I expressed the same sentiment about Alyssum Everdeen at breakfast.

“I know,” she answers without batting an eye, her own opening words obligingly set aside to deal with my concern. “Though, to be fair, I think the magic usually happens by accident, and of course she can’t use it on herself. What did she do to you?” she asks with a little smile.

“Dreams,” I reveal tersely. “Vivid ones.”

“Bad ones?” she ventures with what almost passes for concern, but her eyes are dancing.

“I married Gale and had his baby,” I reply, as though such is the stuff of nightmares, and her entire face curls up in a grin.

“And, um…you’re complaining?” she wonders merrily, her sympathy thoroughly abandoned.

“Shut up,” I retort, but without malice, and slip my arm through hers.

“I wonder if she found some old mugwort,” she muses as we head down the street. “I really thought the lozenges were just lavender and honey, but I suppose even that might be enough to crumble your resistance on a subconscious level and open the floodgates, as it were.”

“How do you know about the lozenges?” I ask, looking at her with a start.

“Well, your mom stopped by last night and left with a pouch of them,” she observes. “While your dad was at the bakery, and I know you’ve had a difficult couple of days –”

“I’m sorry!” I blurt, though she’s said nothing to prompt it, or even to indicate that she was aware of my presence in the alley last night. “They left me outside for a few minutes and –”

“I know,” she says, to my surprise, and without the slightest indication of offense. “I heard your parents talking to you after and figured you must have been out there at least part of the time, whether or not you wanted to be. Any insights to share?” she wonders.

“You…you’re not furious with me for eavesdropping?” I sputter, taken aback by her response.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to make you tell me all about your dream in a minute,” she promises with gleeful relish. “And then I might pick on you for a bit for running away and hiding from me after school. But we’re courting from our windowsills, for pity’s sake,” she reminds me. “I mean, our conversations are private, but I doubt you’re the first to overhear one.”

“So you’re calling it courting now?” I ask, dropping my voice a little. “Outright and for-real?”

“Not _outright_ ,” she hedges. “Not even between ourselves, really, but the word did come up last night – after you left, probably.”

“And who brought it up?” I wonder, gleeful in my turn, because I have a reasonably good idea how this may have played out, and Prim blushes like a midsummer rose.

“Of course it was him,” she whispers through a sprawling smile. “And it wasn’t like that. He said he _can’t_ court me properly – not the way he wants – for at least two more winters, so I proposed we carry on courting _im_ properly in the meantime.”

“Prim!” I gasp, scandalized.

“I meant after-dinner chocolate at the windows and mysterious ribbons!” she hisses, her blush deepening to crimson as she ducks her face toward my coat sleeve. “You know, secret little things that only we share and understand. Marko got it –”

“Before or after he blushed like a beetroot and told you that wasn’t a good idea?” I guess, grinning now, and her small face disappears into my shoulder.

“He figured it out quickly enough,” is the muffled response. “And I mean, really: who _wants_ improper courtship?”

“I don’t know; what _is_ ‘improper courtship’?” I puzzle impishly, wondering whether it was Prim’s lover or mother who clarified this for her and wishing wildly to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“I know where babies come from, Madge,” she replies, raising a face crinkled in genuine disgust. “Quite literally, as it happens, and how they get there has got to be a means-to-an-end kind of thing because…” Her mouth twists like she’s just tasted something awful. “It’s just so… _ick_ ,” she declares, as though that word sums up the business entirely.

I grin, unsurprised by her sentiment – if also, faintly, relieved – and ruffle her capped head, because the mere idea of seeing a boy naked, let alone lying placidly beneath him while he pushes that strange jutting appendage up between my legs, is still every bit as revolting to me as it must be to Prim. “Ick indeed,” I agree heartily, but can’t resist adding, “But you know: you can’t get pregnant from hand-holding or kisses, and nobody has to be naked for that.”

“I’m well aware,” she answers, unamused and refusing to rise to the bait. “But both of those fall under the heading of ‘proper courtship,’ never mind Marko’s in no hurry to do either one with me.”

I wonder if he actually told her this outright or something along those lines, and if that was his way of gently keeping her at arm’s length till she reaches a more acceptable courting age. “You’re already sneaking in hand-holds all over the place,” I reassure her. “So I wouldn’t be too worried – and honestly, I say find out when your mom and his dad had their first kiss and set that as your benchmark.”

“Because that worked out so well for them?” she wonders wryly.

“Well, unless you can see yourself marrying Rory Hawthorne someday,” I tease, “I think the pair of you are safe.”

“Ugh!” she exclaims, just shy of a gagging noise, and I can’t help feeling the slightest bit sorry for her gangly, hopeless admirer. “Anyway, if you’re looking for the next generation of Jack Everdeen, I think Vick or even Gale is a closer match,” she argues. “And as both of them are in love with _you_ , I’m not worried about either one spontaneously singing his way into my heart.”

“But you’re the Everdeen in this equation,” I point out – quickly, hoping to cover up my blush with a witty rejoinder. “Best watch where you sing before you have every man in the Seam sighing and pining at your back door, ribbons in hand.”

“I got Mom’s voice, not Dad’s,” she dismisses, though this means less than she thinks. For a long while after Aunt Maysi died, the only thing that could bring my mother any measure of peace was Alyssum Ebberfeld crooning a lullaby in her soft husky voice. “So there’s no danger of birds falling silent to hear me, let alone men,” Prim concludes matter-of-factly. “Now, tell me about your dream. Did it involve proper or _im_ proper courtship?” she wonders, her practicality vanishing in the face of fresh mischief.

“Proper, of course,” I answer with mock-affront. “I told you, we got married –”

“And you had his baby,” she reminds me. “Did you get ‘round to _making_ that baby,” she wheedles wickedly, “or did it just show up?”

I blush in spite of myself, abruptly recalling the tryst in the woods – the damp, almost piney scent of wild lavender crushed by the tangle of two ardent bodies – and shake my head furiously in lieu of a reply.

“ _Oho!_ ” Prim crows triumphantly. “Do tell!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I lie, “and the baby just showed up, really. One minute there was a toasting and then a bridal bed – that I _saw_ , nothing more,” I add firmly, leaving out the familiar olive-skinned hand brushing away lavender blossoms from between the sheets. “And the next moment I was soaking in a tub, holding this newborn baby and…”

“And?” she prompts breathlessly.

“Crying,” I confess, almost a whisper. “Well, laughing and crying in equal measure.”

Prim stops us in our tracks, her mirth exchanged for a grave gentleness. “Have you ever seen a birth?” she asks softly. “Because that’s pretty much what happens. Once the mother has the baby in her arms – fresh from the womb, not all pretty and clean and bundled up – the joy just comes crashing out. She’s laughing and sobbing all at once, as if there isn’t an expression strong enough for what she’s feeling.”

“That was it exactly,” I whisper and ache for that tiny body cradled to my breast, its thatch of wet black hair scattered with lavender buds.

“Do you want kids, Madge?” she asks, so gently. “I know our mothers never did, for obvious reasons, and Katniss doesn’t either, but I suspect a winter in the woods with a boy who was born to be a father will change that.”

“I never much thought about it,” I admit and marvel inwardly that I haven’t even made it to the woods with the Hawthornes’ stand-in father yet and already I’m dreaming of having his child. “I didn’t – _don’t_ – expect I’ll ever marry, so it’s not something that could ever be a part of my future.”

“And if you happened to fall in love – with, say, a virile young Seam man who wants a family of him own?” she presses, but still so somberly. “Dad wanted us desperately but he loved Mom so much he married her in spite of her never wanting kids. She changed her mind, obviously, several years down the road, but…Gale isn’t that kind of patient.”

“I gathered,” I reply with the faintest of smiles and wonder if Gale would be the type of husband who’s never truly happy unless his wife is pregnant and spends every night diligently endeavoring to start a child inside her. As repellent as the idea of sex still is to me, there’s something oddly endearing about that fierce, angry boy wanting a baby of his own – and the idea of him attempting, night after night, to create one.

I suppose it’s as primal a desire as they come, the urge – no, _need_ – to procreate and forge your own bloodline, but still I can’t hold back a giggle at the image of Gale climbing over me in an old-fashioned nightshirt, gruffly grumbling something along the lines of, _Come on, woman, we haven’t got all night!_ as he impatiently hikes up the hem.

“I’m being entirely serious, you know,” Prim breaks into this daydream with decided consternation. “Acting like there’s nothing whatsoever amusing – or intriguing – about you and Gale getting married and promptly creating a baby, and here you are _giggling_!”

“I’m sorry!” I claim through bubbles of laughter. “I was just imagining him as a grumpy, impatient husband, determined to plant a baby in his long-suffering wife at every opportunity.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re _looking_ _forward_ to all those ‘opportunities,’ aren’t you?” she exclaims. “I knew it!”

“No!” I insist, because my brain truly can’t think past the nightshirt – I couldn’t visualize the act of intercourse even if I wanted to – but there’s an inexplicable, warm pleasant stirring low in my belly at the prospect of repeatedly making love with Gale, so on some primitive level that I can’t _begin_ to understand, Prim’s right.

“No,” I tell her again, as firmly as I can manage. “I’m not looking forward to – I’m not even _thinking about!_ – being in bed with Gale, or any of the rest of it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone, looking after my parents and, like as not, teaching piano lessons.”

“There’s a certain Seam man who might have something to say about that,” she warns mirthfully. “And I’m sure it would be much more acceptable for you to marry him openly than to sneak him in through your bedroom window every night for passionate interludes, till suddenly you’re the pregnant spinster with high lace collars to hide the love-bites.”

“You have a diseased imagination,” I scold, tugging her down the street once more, but it’s impossible to stay angry at, let alone properly chastise, a merrily grinning Prim. “And anyway, how do _you_ know about high collars and love-bites?” I counter sternly.

“I’m in secondary school,” she reminds me, “so I overhear things, and my mother is the town apothecary. Once couples go much beyond love-bites, there’s usually a visit to the Justice Building and then to our place for prenatal advice – not necessarily in that order.”

“Love-bites would be _im_ proper courting, then?” I tease, and she rolls her eyes.

“I fail to see the appeal,” she says dryly, then adds with a wink, “But I expect you can tell me all about it in a week or two. Rumor has it that Gale leaves ‘great’ ones, whatever that means.”

I frown. What she said about Gale is hardly a secret, especially around the secondary school, but for the first time it’s affecting me with something sharper than the typical annoyance. I don’t care two pins about the couples who prop themselves against the back of the school building and devour each other in grunts and shallow breaths, but suddenly it bothers me that Gale has done this with multiple other girls, enough to garner a reputation as a dispenser of “great” love-bites.

Maybe he really _is_ in love with someone and maybe he’s not, but at least half of those girls must have thought she was it – the one he wants to marry and start that family with – only to be discarded after a few passionate rounds of groping and kisses.

“Sorry,” Prim says, perceiving my distress, if not the reason for it. “I didn't mean to imply that Gale is such a…wastrel.”

But it’s true. His name has been linked with a generous, indefinite handful of girls, all Seam that I can think of, and never for long. Never for real. I can't think of any one ever being acknowledged as his sweetheart, let alone girlfriend. To the best of my recollection, the only girl he’s ever stuck around for any length of time is Katniss, and she’s an incandescent sliver of the moon itself. I can’t quite decide whether she’d burn or freeze his lips off if he ever came close enough to steal a kiss, to say nothing of attempting a love-bite.

“No, you’re right,” I tell her. “Gale hasn’t exactly been choosy in his kissing partners.”

“Maybe he’s _too_ choosy,” she suggests. “He doesn’t ever keep them around – take them home to meet his family, and the rest – and I know he never laid a finger on Katniss.”

“And just how do you know that?” I wonder, though these tidings are as welcome as they are unsurprising.

“Well, he still has all of those fingers, doesn’t he?” she replies with a grin. “Katniss would’ve snapped off the offending one at the base if he ever once tried.”

I return her smile, grateful to have an answer at last, and she goes on, “Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not approving his behavior, just trying to make sense of it. I think he loves someone he doesn’t think he can ever have and so he’s coping with meaningless encounters with any girl he _can_ get.”

“He could’ve had Katniss,” I insist, but Prim shakes her head.

“Wild things need bread and soft words and shyness,” she reminds me. “I’m not sure she even saw him as a male, just another wild creature to share the hunt and the spoils. And you know that’s not who I’m talking about.”

Unbidden, my mind floods with images of what the coupling of two such persons might look like. I once caught a glimpse of stray cats mating, or leading up to it – the male biting the female’s neck as he mounted her hindquarters – and wonder, madly, if this is how it would have ended, had Gale ever dared to express his feelings to my wild, beautiful friend. An impatient, loveless rutting in some filthy alley, his powerful hands braced on her narrow back, pinning her in place as he thrusts between her legs from behind.

My whole being recoils at the image, and rightly so. Katniss would never submit to such treatment for a start. She’s fierce, to be sure, even feral in some ways, but she relies on stealth, swiftness, and caution: hiding places and flight, not ferocity, confrontation, and combat. Such a creature will be won by an open window, a trail of breadcrumbs in the snow, and a bowl of warm milk at the door, not the rough, aggressive courtship of another wild thing.

No, whenever circumstances make it possible for Katniss to lie like a lover with Peeta, the invitation will come from her and be accepted with disbelief, awe, and an almost excruciating degree of patience. He’ll probably give her whole weeks – even _months_ – of nights just to see and touch his body in increasing stages of nudity before deciding for certain whether she wants to join it with hers.

 _And what will win a wolf?_ wonders a voice in my mind. _How do you imagine you’ll fare with a wolf in your home, in your arms, in your bed?_

I shudder, and not with anticipation. I don’t want a forceful lover hurling himself at me like a furious animal, no matter how beautiful or beloved he might be. Until this morning I didn’t want a lover at all, and any man renowned for his love-bites will surely –

“Hey.” Prim’s voice interrupts my frantic thoughts, gentle as a feather. “Are you okay? You look downright ill.”

“I don’t want that,” I croak. “I don’t want a boy who’s rough and impatient and….and treats me like an animal.”

“Far be it for me to know, let alone _understand_ how boys work,” she ventures quietly. “And I always wanted someone soft and sweet – well, _Peeta_ ,” she admits with an abashed little smile, “to take care of my sister, not her gruff, always-angry-about-something hunting partner, even if he _was_ a family friend. But I think what’s upsetting you right now would all but go away if you would just accept something you seem to be fighting with all your might.”

“I’ve admitted I’m in love with him,” I reply, a little crossly, as this is surely old news by now. “I even told my parents,” I add, concrete proof that I’ve resigned myself to my feelings, at least for the moment.

“You _what?_ ” she squeals, her eyes alight. “Okay, forget about beastly Gale, I need to hear how that –”

“What am I supposed to accept?” I interrupt firmly, because she’s going to get the story sooner rather than later but I want my answer first.

“You _know_ what,” she answers with a shameless grin. “That Gale Hawthorne is completely, utterly, head over heels in love with you.”

“And who exactly is perpetuating this wild fiction?” I demand, resolutely ignoring the color boiling up in my cheeks.

Prim gleefully tugs off one mitten to tick off on her fingers. “One: his siblings know all about you, which means he talks about you around them, if not outright _to_ them. Little kids have short attention spans but sharp memories, which means anything Gale’s ever told his siblings about you might crop up at any time.”

“Little kids also have wild imaginations,” I counter, raising a gloved finger of my own and playfully poking Prim between the eyebrows, to indicate that she hasn’t quite outgrown the category she’s describing.

“Fair enough,” she concedes, to my surprise. “Then ask Columbine about the dress. I dare you.”

“What dress?” I puzzle, genuinely confused. “The special one Gale ordered for Posy for New Year’s?”

“The one Gale made a point of _not_ ordering for his bride,” she says slyly.

I narrowly conceal the fact that my heart lurched halfway out of my chest at the mention of _Gale’s bride._ “Columbine likes to think she’s entitled to things,” I remind Prim crisply. “That was probably a pretty piece of fiction – yes, another one – that Gale came up with off the cuff to put her in her place, especially since he made a point of saying he’d have to go somewhere finer than her father’s shop to order it.”

“Gale Hawthorne looking to commission a toasting dress is big news in Twelve,” she remarks, lifting a second, sassy finger.

“Which Columbine would rather die than tell anyone,” I riposte, curling the second finger down again.

“But Columbine isn’t the only one who knows, now is she?” Prim points out, sneaking up her pinky and wiggling it impishly. “There are three very vocal little Hawthornes running around the primary school with this news, not to mention any of the piecework girls who might’ve been in the shop at the time of said conversation –”

“For all we know, the whole toasting dress business was Gale’s manner of declaring interest in Columbine herself,” I snap, far angrier at myself for not realizing this sooner than I am at Prim for her persistent teasing. “Why else would he insist on a Merchant-made dress?”

“Or one of Katniss’s cast-offs?” she adds innocently, her humor subdued by my outburst but not entirely suppressed.

I veritably growl in reply, words being inadequate to my frustration, and Prim laughs like I’m the best joke she’s heard in ages. “And here you were worried about _Gale_ being beastly!” she teases, and leans up to plant a playful peck on my cheek. “Come on, angry thing. You can have one of my pastries while you tell me all about your awful nightmare.”

“Quite,” I concur sternly. “There were excessive quantities of lavender _and_ Gale Hawthorne. A girl couldn’t draw a breath without getting a lungful of one or the other.”

“Anguish and misery all around,” she agrees with a fine counterfeit of sympathy, but her mouth is curled in a grin of sheer delight. “As a point of minor interest – mainly so I can put my mitten back on,” she admits without shame, “has anyone told you outright that Gale loves you, aside from my clever self?”

I hesitate. Both Jude and my mother as good as said it but not in so many words – not outright – and the person who _did_ say Gale loves me has nothing to gain by lying, nor any reason to do so. And while this makes her observation no easier for me to accept – Gale Hawthorne clearly _doesn’t_ love me, nor ever will – it’ll be downright convicting in Prim’s eyes that Mrs. Mellark said he does.

“Your future mother-in-law,” I say at last. “No doubt, in an effort to thoroughly discombobulate me. Maybe _she_ was behind last night’s dream,” I posit dryly. “On the night we spoke, she looked like a fairy queen and spoke of witches and dragons, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn she can sow mischief in your dreams, like so many dandelion seeds.”

Prim gives this a thoughtful nod, not the giddy shriek I’d anticipated, and I can’t decide whether that’s better or worse. “Which raises two very interesting points,” she observes, but I close her hand into a fist before she can raise a finger to tick off the first of said points, making her eyes crinkle mirthfully in acknowledgement. “Firstly: why tell you that, especially if it isn’t true? If the story about her and my father is true, maybe she really _does_ want to prevent you making the same mistake she did.”

“A mistake that resulted in – or _was_ , if the gossips are to be believed – your sweetheart,” I remind her wryly, and she smiles.

“He would have happened anyway,” she replies with a surety I can’t begin to fathom. “Probably via Mom and Mr. Mellark, but maybe I would’ve been theirs and he would’ve been my father’s child with Mrs. Mellark – or rather, Raisa Brognar.”

“In which scenario, he’d probably look a lot like Gale,” I point out. “There’s no burl and brawn, let alone blond hair, on the Everdeen side,” but this doesn’t throw her in the slightest. 

“And secondly: on the subject of Gale,” she continues with a wink, “how exactly did Mrs. Mellark discover that he loves you? Last I heard, he rarely stops to trade if she’s the only one around, so he certainly isn’t unburdening his heart at her door.”

“She’s a witch,” I conclude, as this is the only possibility, however preposterous, that makes any sense whatsoever. “For all we know, she’s poking around _all_ our heads at night. Maybe she even put the notion of loving me into his head – or of loving him into mine,” I realize with something halfway between shock and disappointment, and Prim placates me with a little smile.

“I don’t think you needed any guidance down that road,” she assures me, and it’s oddly comforting to hear. For one split second I was almost absolved of any responsibility in falling in love with Gale, but some strange, contrary part of me bristled at the suggestion that this sudden torrent of feeling was the result of witchcraft, not the evolution of my own heart.

I could set it aside so easily if I just let myself believe it was a spell, a trick, a dream – a New Year’s fancy, even, brought on by a casual exchange of ribbons with an exceptionally handsome boy. Gale and I will never be married, whatever my parents believe, and caring for him will bring me no end of misery. So why am I so determined not merely to continue at it but to take full responsibility for these troublesome, uncomfortable feelings?

“Here, have a sweet bun,” Prim urges, proffering her bakery parcel. “While you’re eating I’ll tell you what I _think_ happened in last night’s dream and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”

“Somehow I know that’ll end worse than if I just tell you about it myself,” I sigh, fishing out a sugar-dusted pastry, the heft of which promises fruit filling of some kind. “It all started with lavender…”

My mind is still redolent with lavender and lovemaking when I settle into my seat in Math, and when Columbine slips into the desk in front of me without sparing a glance in my direction, the words squeak out before I can stop them: “Is Gale really shopping for a toasting dress?”

She doesn’t respond for a long moment and I’m relieved beyond measure that she didn’t hear me – and then she turns slowly in her chair, her eyes keen and voice cool, to ask, “Who said that he was?”

“Well…his brother Rory,” I reply, making her eyebrows lift a calculated half-inch and blushing to the very marrow of my bones. “He said Gale brought it up when you made Posy’s New Year’s dress – that…that he wanted to order a toasting dress next, but he wasn't sure of the material, or the lady,” I explain, in my embarrassment parroting Rory’s account word-for-word and realizing how utterly ridiculous the whole thing sounds as said words leave my lips.  “And I know Rory’s little more than a child with a colorful imagination,” I add in a rush, “but – since Gale and I are going to be spending a certain amount of time together, I-I wanted to know if…if there was a fiancée to be mindful of,” I conclude feebly.

“You would know better than anyone,” she answers cryptically. “Frankly, I think he just wanted to broadcast his newfound wealth. Gale Hawthorne might be good for an hour at the slag heap,” she confides, “but he’s in no rush to bring a girl home to his mother, let alone take a wife.”

“Yes he is,” I snap, certain my entire being has caught fire from both embarrassment and fury. I know what the slag heap is and have a few guesses as to what takes place there, and it shouldn’t surprise me in the least to hear that Gale is a patron. Truth be told, it angers more than surprises me, especially to hear it from Columbine in such a jaded manner, as though she’s _been with_ Gale, to whatever extent – the mere idea of them holding hands makes me tremble with nausea and rage – and found him inadequate or inferior, even though it’s plain as day that she wants him desperately.

“He wants to marry and start a family,” I blaze on in a fierce low voice. “He’s already in love,” and her expression softens with genuine pity.

“We’ve all heard that before,” she says, reaching back to pat my hand. “Unfortunately, the girl he loves and wants to marry went off to the woods to live with Peeta Mellark. But maybe you’ll be lucky,” she suggests in a strange hard tone. “No one’s ever gone beyond the fence with him, if you know what I mean.”

I push out of my desk and retreat blindly to the nearest bathroom, where I retch unproductively a few times before slumping beside the toilet in a sweaty, shivering heap and resting my head against the concrete wall behind me.

I desperately want to forget everything Columbine said but her words resound in my skull, reflecting back from my closed eyelids to pepper my brain anew, over and over again. Why on earth did I ask about the toasting dress, _knowing_ it would make her angry? It was Prim’s idea, of course, but I know she never expected me to go through with it, and I can’t begin to imagine why I did. Was I trying to imply that _I_ might be the intended bride – to lay claim to Gale in some way – never mind there’s never been less of an understanding between us? It’s clear that Columbine has learned of our hunting partnership somehow or other and equally clear that she doesn’t see it giving me a better chance with Gale than any other girl in Twelve, except –

I shudder at her innuendo. As reassuring as it is to hear that Gale never took any of his love-bite conquests to bed, at least so far as the rumor-bearers know, the implication that I’m joining him in the woods – perhaps that I even came up with the hunting partner scheme – in hopes of having sex with him makes my breakfast threaten at the back of my throat.

For the first moment in my life I truly, deeply wish that he was mine: that I had a comforter and defender with strong arms to enfold me and a solid chest to bury my face in and hide from the world. I’ve weathered so much alone – little enough, maybe, compared with others in Twelve – but the venom of one jealous girl is suddenly more than I can bear.

I don’t linger in the bathroom, as I’ve already missed opening bell and the first few minutes of class and Gale’s hardly going to walk in here to sweep me up, escort me back to the classroom, and tell off Columbine to boot, but I do take an extra minute to tug up my sleeve and trace the red ribbon wound around my forearm, like the path of a lover’s lips. Gale doesn’t love me and he never will, but he gave me this ribbon and continues to wear mine, and prominently. Surely I can be a little bold in turn.

I return to class with a red satin bow tied ‘round the tail of my braid and slip quietly back into my seat. Columbine doesn’t acknowledge my return in any way, but there’s a folded scrap of paper waiting atop my notebook to greet me. I wait till class is half over before reading it, anticipating further vitriol, and even then peek worriedly at the contents before opening it fully.

_Everything okay? Will talk to Columbine after._

_Yr humble servant_

I smile to myself and glance over two desks to my left, where Jude sits. His expression slacks a little with relief at our eye contact, either because I appear to be no worse for wear or because his note was finally received, and I give him a subtle little wave before nodding at the paper and writing a quick reply on the reverse.

_No need to talk to her. I am and will be okay. But thanks for asking._

I don’t dare try to pass it to him during class and wait for the scramble of the bell to tuck the scrap of paper into his hand in the hall before darting away. Before the second period bell has sounded there’s a new scrap of paper tossed onto my desk, this one reading:

_Nice try. Will sort this out and talk to you soon. Would promise you an apology if I thought I could get a genuine one, alas._

_Meanwhile: chin up, huntress._

_Regards,  
_ _Yr humble servant_

As a result, I’m not surprised in the least when Jude slips into the chair beside me at lunch, though I can’t resist a token protest.

“We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” I warn in a low voice, albeit good-naturedly. “My parents already think we should marry.”

Jude gives a long low whistle in reply. “I know I’m a charming prospect,” he says lightly, tugging at his suspenders with his thumbs, “but the mayor’s only daughter is miles out of my league. Do they realize you’re a real-life princess to a place like Twelve?” he wonders, and the admiration in his eyes is both solemn and genuine.

“And talk like that doesn’t help matters,” I remind him, and he chuckles.

“You know, I can’t decide whether the menfolk are intimidated by your status or afraid of your lover,” he goes on, his customary merriment returned. “The mayor’s only daughter should out-ribbon my mama at New Year’s, especially when she’s as lovely as you are. Though, unless I’m much mistaken…” He trails off curiously, peering at my back, and dips a hand to scoop up the beribboned tail of my braid and hold it aloft. “This is the most sought-after ribbon in town,” he remarks, “which counts for quite a bit, especially among the eligible maids at this school.”

My cheeks warm at his words and I quickly snatch my braid from his grasp, tucking it behind my shoulder once more. “I didn’t put it on for that,” I insist. “He wears mine openly and…it’s not some tawdry thing,” I conclude, with more force than I intended.

“Did someone say that it was?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. “That, perhaps, ‘hunting partner’ is code for ‘slag heap Sundays’?”

My blush deepens to a feverish burn. “Look, I know she likes him,” I tell him quietly, “and the fact that he’s having anything to do with the mayor’s friendless daughter is probably galling to the resident beauty, so she wants to make me feel bad about it – maybe so bad that I back out of the hunting altogether.”

I hadn’t thought of this till the words leave my lips but it makes a great deal of sense. There’s no romantic subterfuge to our hunting arrangement, of course, but it means spending long hours alone with Gale in the woods and being seen together around town afterward, which, while hardly a foundation for a relationship, provides ample opportunity for one to crop up as well as plenty of rumor-fodder for this gossipy little district. It’s the very same as when he hunted with Katniss, but they were both so young when they started out that the rumors took longer to percolate and her indifference – her single-minded survival – made it impossible for said rumors to properly take root.

For all I know, Columbine’s been biding her time to make a play for Gale and I’ve foiled everything by stepping into Katniss’s role. Maybe she really _does_ love him.

Maybe she _is_ the girl the toasting dress is intended for: the girl Gale doesn’t think he can get, who doesn’t care two pins for him – only she _does_ care, wildly, and she’s livid at the thought of him spending Sundays in the woods with the mayor’s daughter. 

“Listen,” Jude breaks gently into my thoughts, “I haven’t had words with her just yet, respecting your wishes, but it’s going to happen before the end of the day. If you’d rather, Lettie can do it, but it might be kinder coming from me.”

I meet his eyes with an appreciative, crooked smile.

Lettie Wilhearn is Rooba’s only daughter, and while she’s undeniably Wilhearn stock, no one’s quite sure who fathered her.

Rooba’s first husband, Dewey Cartwright – Aunt Maysi’s sweetheart, back in the day – died young and unexpectedly, leaving her with a bustling and very physical business to run single-handed while also looking after their infant son, Anders, and her own aging mother. The Cartwright and Wilhearn boys were good friends from childhood, so the collective Wilhearns naturally called on Dewey’s widow to offer whatever assistance they could.

The eldest and youngest both had wives by then while the two middle sons were single, but all four brothers – as well as their father, a prime specimen in his own right – were diligent about visiting the fetching widow in her hour of need and inevitably, all manner of salacious rumors arose about what “tending to her” really meant.

Rooba married the third brother, Jerry, within a few months of Dewey’s death and clearly for practical reasons, but no one really seems to believe that he was Lettie’s father. Lettie is officially Columbine’s cousin, but if the rumors are to be believed she could be her aunt or even her half-sister. The girls look almost nothing alike, but Rooba’s as far from delicate Swannee Wilhearn – Columbine’s mother, the Seam girl so lovely that Simon Wilhearn left the family business and moved to the back of beyond to be with her – as you can get and the Brognar blood is strong. Lettie is slightly taller and slimmer than her stout mother, but she inherited Rooba’s round face and bountiful bosom and has masses of ruddy blonde hair, much like her aunt, Raisa Mellark.

I know next to nothing about the relationship between Columbine and Lettie but I’m willing to bet it’s strained, especially if there’s any substance to the rumor that Simon cheated on his beloved Swannee with a voluptuous widow who may or may not have been married to his brother at the time, even if Lettie _isn’t_ his daughter.

“You think Columbine will take kindly to your sister telling her to be nicer to me?” I wonder dryly.

Jude grins shamelessly. “I think she’ll be furious,” he admits, “but the desired outcome would still be obtained. Or, I can talk to her.”

“You would really do that?” I ask, moved by his offer, never mind he’s made it twice on paper, and far more emphatically than this. “I mean…she might be equally terrible to you.”

“I expect as much,” he answers, to my surprise. “But I’ll take it.”

There’s an unexpected softness to these words and I frown sharply, struck by the realization that I’ve missed something that’s been staring me in the face all along. “Jude...are you in love with Columbine?” I whisper, and his merry mouth curves in a bittersweet shadow of a smile.

“Don’t let your parents plan our nuptials just yet,” he says lightly. “But maybe they shouldn’t rule me out as a prospect either. Brognars know courtship, but sometimes we colossally foul up the thing we want most of all.”

He rises from his chair and kisses the top of my head in a tender, absent fashion. “I’ll make sure she backs off,” he promises, and heads off across the lunchroom.

I pass the rest of the school day with a dull throb of a headache, wondering whether anything I knew as fact on New Year’s night – the last time the world made sense – is still true. _Maybe the Earth is flat,_ I tell myself madly. _Maybe Jack Everdeen never died – maybe none of them did. Maybe Laurel’s name is familiar because I’ve overheard it in a conspiring whisper, and she’s secretly masterminding the revolution that will finally overthrow the Capitol._

Considering who her grandfather was and what inevitably must have befallen him, this makes a surprising amount of sense, however ludicrous the notion.

Prim upgrades her after-school invitation to a cup of her mother’s infamous almond-and-spice coffee and I follow her upstairs without hesitation, as eager for the wakefulness as the headache relief, not to mention a taste of the magical brew that so effectively revived my mother – and a certain pair of sleepy teenage lovers in their day.

“I have to be gone before the Hawthornes get here,” I warn as I sit at the kitchen table, still wrapped in my coat, and Prim grins.

“They don’t actually come upstairs, you know,” she teases, tugging off my cap and setting it on the tabletop, just out of reach. “Once Gale drops off his harvest, they’re out the door and headed home for supper.”

“Or lurking outside my house,” I add dryly, which necessitates an account of Rory’s visit last night and leaves Prim giggling like a loon.

“You have to admit, it’s kind of adorable,” she says as she pours us each a half-cup of strong coffee, then tops them off with heaps of brown sugar and an utterly obscene amount of cream – even by mayor’s mansion standards – whisked to a froth.

“Is that a drink or dessert?” I demand, enthralled and appalled at once.

“This,” she declares, placing a mugful at my right hand, “is what Peeta makes for Katniss every single day: sometimes for breakfast, sometimes after dinner and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon, just to warm her toes while she’s cleaning her game. They call it ‘cream-coffee’ and it’s _heavenly_.”

I take a shy questing sip and melt into my chair as the strong spiced cream sighs its way to my belly, whispering of toasted almonds all the while. “This is it, Prim,” I declare, shaking my head at the decadent brew. “This is how he got her.”

“To be quite correct, I believe he got her with cold chicken,” she replies, her expression a mirror of my own rapture. “But I suspect this is how he keeps her around. This, fresh bread, and ginger cake and custard every Sunday night.”

“I am a complete and utter fool,” I groan. “Katniss gets lavish feasts at every turn and you get mini pies every day, crafted and baked just for you, and I had to pick a boy who probably eats raw meat and wouldn’t buy a treat for his girl if you handed him a bag of money and marched him at gunpoint to the sweet-shop counter.”

“Cheer up,” she says impishly. “Somebody just like that raised me for the past five years and I turned out okay.”

“So I’ll have an endless stream of clever, scrawny rugrats,” I lament, but without any real distress. “Most of whom are in love with sweethearts twice their age and none of whom can stop teasing me for more than five minutes.”

Prim grins without shame. “But think how fun life will be!” she exclaims. “As it is, you seem much less unsettled by the prospect than you were this morning. Did something happen at school?”

I haven’t told her about Columbine or Jude – or Columbine _and_ Jude – largely because the most upsetting part of that dialogue is something I don’t want to discuss with Katniss’s twelve-year-old sister, however wise beyond her years she may be. I’m surprised I’m not coming off as _more_ unsettled after the exchange with Columbine, but I put it down to Jude’s power to placate and, of course, the shock of discovering that he’s in love with the girl in question.

While it’s hardly surprising that any boy with eyes in his head would fall for the prettiest girl in town, it’s startling that witty, carefree Jude Tolliver is among them, and of a mind that it won’t end happily for him. Rooba’s children tend to be bursting with confidence – not smug or arrogant, just cheerfully unbothered by the minor day-to-day obstacles that stop so many of us from moving forward – so it’s disconcerting that Jude doubts he could ever win Columbine.

Contemplating it from a distance, I can see the sense in the pairing as well as the implausibility. Both Jude and Columbine are the offspring of a Seam and Merchant union, but where Columbine’s father gave up life in town to start his own business in the Seam with his wife, Rooba carried Micah Tolliver away from the mines – some say literally – and ensconced him in comfort in her home on the Square till his death. Both families are prosperous – Rooba’s downright _wealthy_ by Twelve’s standards, thanks to her keen bargains and frugal household management – and respected, and both Jude and Columbine are well-liked, with no shortage of friends. But there the similarities taper off.

Columbine is something of a princess in the Seam, with the fair skin and bright eyes – now blue, now gray; changing hues with whatever she wears – that she inherited from her dashing blond father, plus the healthy curves and shiny hair that a plentiful pantry can provide. She’s essentially a Merchant girl with black hair – and _wavy_ black hair at that, not pin-straight like her neighbors – which makes her eye-catching on both sides of town, and her family name grants her a certain prestige, never mind how many Wilhearns may or may not have warmed Rooba’s bed in the past.

Jude is a little less stunning at a glance but his Seam father gave him soft, smoky eyes and a more sensitive, fine-featured face than his robust half-siblings can boast. Between that, his gentle Seam surname, and the absence of red in his pale hair, he’s the least Brognaresque of the bunch, but old prejudices malinger for generations in this cramped little village of a district, and the Brognars were considered the low end of the Merchant class even before Vanya, Rooba’s cruel red-haired father, was born, and his legacy, however short-lived, certainly did the family no favors.

To this day, decades after thirteen-year-old Rooba walloped her father out of commission and brought on the stroke that ultimately killed him and her brother picked the fight that ended with a knife in his throat, half the town still curls up its collective lip at the surname _Brognar_ or a flash of the striking red-gold hair that intermittently crops up in subsequent generations and makes an ordinary beauty – such as Raisa Mellark – downright breathtaking.

If Jude married Columbine, I daresay they would have the most beautiful daughters Twelve has ever seen – aside from Jack Everdeen’s girls, of course.

“I think Jude Tolliver fancies Columbine Wilhearn,” I answer cautiously, giving away no more than might be simply observed in the right place at the right time, and Prim leans forward, thoroughly intrigued.

“What a match that would be!” she murmurs, processing in a half-second all the information I just pored over for many moments. “She thinks she’s so far above Seamfolk and he’s the proud son of a short-lived miner.”

“And a Brognar,” I remind her needlessly. “And she’s clearly in love with Gale – or at least, none too keen to see him with anyone else.”

“Did she say something to you?” she wonders, eyes wide. “Or did you ask her about the dress?”

I’m spared from answering – but hardly reprieved – by Vick’s voice calling up the stairs from the shop: “Prim, your ma says come down! She needs an extra pair of hands behind the counter.”

“Which means: ‘I want our phosphate and your mom is busy with another customer,’” she translates with a smile. “Come along and say hi? He’ll be over the moon if I come down with the mayor’s daughter in tow, and you _do_ owe him–”

“Back door,” I counter firmly, and she chuckles. “Gale usually comes to the back door with his trades,” she reminds me gleefully, “and he’s due here any minute. Are you sure you don’t want me to string a sheet out the window?”

“Back door will suffice if I go right now,” I insist, as much for myself as for Prim, and draining my cup with a long deep gulp, I scramble to and down the private side stair without so much as a by-your-leave, to peals of laughter from above.

Common to Merchant homes, especially on the Square, the private stair allows the family and its visitors to come and go from the residence above without having to walk through the shop itself. This one descends into the cool, fragrant stillroom – at present, blessedly empty of Mrs. Everdeen or any assorted Hawthornes – just opposite the back door, and I’ve never been more grateful for the window in said door, revealing the stoop outside to be equally empty.

I’m halfway up my own back step before my feet slow at last and I finally turn to look behind me. There are plenty of folk making their way home, ducking in and out of shops and pausing to chat in the street, but no Hawthornes to be seen, let alone in pursuit.

I’m relieved and vaguely disappointed all at once, for reasons I can’t begin to imagine.

Once more, the kitchen is humming with supper preparations – a new routine for the mayor’s mansion, nearly established on this, its third night running – and I smile. After sixteen years of small quiet meals with my father or even on my own, it’s an unexpected and deeply welcome comfort to have proper suppers with my mother sitting beside him, laughing and teasing and chiming in on the news of the day. I may bristle at being needled about Gale, but there’s something altogether _wonderful_ when it comes from my newly vivacious mother, who’s been a distant, weary ghost for so long.

Not to mention, a full evening meal means more pay and a generous portion of leftovers for our kitchen staff to take home, with only a slight increase in their working hours.

Things _are_ changing in District Twelve, and the heightened well-being of our Seam maids is yet another ripple of Peeta Mellark’s generosity, compassion, and love. By giving the Everdeens their livelihood back, he revitalized not only Katniss’s mother but my own mother by association, who now benefits others in her turn, and by devising an alternative occupation for Gale –

I give a quiet start, suddenly considering what month this is. Both Katniss’s father and Gale’s died in the mine explosion six Januaries ago, and who’s to say that fiery boy wouldn’t have joined them in death this winter if Peeta hadn’t arranged the foraging job for the apothecary?

If the past few days had never taken place – if there had been no exchange of ribbons, no request for a kiss, no dreams of lavender and lovemaking – would I have been affected if Gale died in the mines? Would I have realized I loved him only when it was too late?

_Is it already too late?_

I shake off this thought with a shiver and make my way to the foyer to remove my outerwear, where with a disgruntled little gasp I realize I forgot my hat at Prim’s in my haste to avoid the Hawthornes. It’s a minor annoyance but I have another hat to tide me over, and she’ll surely return it to me in the morning on our way to school.

I’m halfway up the stairs with my schoolbooks when, out of nowhere, Lettie Wilhearn’s voice calls from the landing below: “Miss Madeline, girl from the apothecary’s at the back door. She says you forgot something.”

I stop and turn, well past the point of being surprised by Rooba’s children popping up in my proximity without warning.

The butcher’s daughter wears a striking coat of knobby saffron-yellow wool with a high fur collar, but her vibrant hair is uncovered – no doubt, she enjoys the admiring glances it draws, especially in the gray doldrums of winter – and she carries a small square parcel tied with twine, which I suspect is a special order of her mother’s sweet apple sausage for our breakfast tomorrow.

Her cheeks are ruddy from the cold and her expression is positively wicked.

“You didn’t bring her in?” I puzzle as I descend, wondering why on earth anyone would leave Prim on our doorstep in such bitter weather, even a Brognar at their most mischievous, and Lettie shrugs.

“Not my house, miss,” is the deferential reply, but her eyes shamelessly belie this attitude.

“Fair enough,” I concede. “Did you talk to Columbine, by chance?”

“Whatever for?” she wonders with an innocence Jude would probably sacrifice a limb to counterfeit, and I shake my head as I walk past her to rescue Prim from the cold.

Except when I open the back door there’s no Prim in sight, only tiny Posy Hawthorne, round as a baby bird in her warmest wrappings and holding my hat and a paper pouch the size of a pound-bag of coffee, stamped with the apothecary seal.

 _Right,_ I think. Either Prim arranged this and is hiding just out of sight, giggling herself silly, or – likelier still – Lettie very deliberately, and correctly, described my visitor as “girl from the apothecary,” since she knows Prim almost as well as I do and would have identified her by name.

“Hello again, Posy,” I greet with all the graciousness of a queen, because not one speck of this is Gale’s sister’s fault, and she grins toothily up at me.

“You forgot something, miss,” she declares, and proffers the hat and pouch at once.

“I forgot my hat,” I agree, crouching to take both items from her, and turn the bag curiously in my hands. “But what’s this?”

There’s one word written on the brown paper and it’s not in Prim’s handwriting, nor her mother’s.

My heart palpably skips a beat at what can only be Gale’s penmanship, sharp and angular, reading simply:

_Sunday?_

“These aren’t from Gale,” Posy supplies, a little too quickly, and she taps the pouch demonstratively with one mittened hand. “Prim said you forgot to pick them up. Nothing to do with Gale.”

She’s a better liar than I would have expected, and I open the top of the pouch to release a fragrant, summery cloud of sweet clover honey and lavender.

Lavender lozenges. A _full pound_ of sensual-dream-inducing lavender lozenges.

I blush to the roots of my hair. The contents of the pouch are patently Prim’s doing, but the handwriting is equally clearly Gale’s, and I don’t think it was a collaboration. I can’t begin to guess how this came to pass, but I suspect my forgotten hat was the inspiration behind the whole thing. There’s no doubt in my mind that Gale had nothing to do with the lozenges themselves – he’d never spend that kind of money on a girl for a start, let alone one who threw him off the property at their last meeting, and even Prim couldn’t have wheedled him into such a purchase – but I suspect he saw the pouch as an opportunity to get the answer to a question I can’t believe he still has.

 _Of course Sunday, you fool!_ I think. _I’m practically_ living for _Sunday at this point! I’m going to kick you over the fence – or maybe_ into _the fence – or maybe just kiss you under the fence till our lips cramp with exhaustion._

I love him – and _want_ him, whatever that means – so much that my bones ache.

“One moment,” I tell Posy, and go inside to the kitchen, where I pour the lozenges into a pretty bowl and neatly cut off the portion of the pouch that Gale wrote on. I make a minor adjustment to his message then wrap the remnants of brown paper around a slice of sweet potato pie – Posy payment – and return to the back stoop.

“This is for you,” I tell her, presenting the wrapped pie slice with all due reverence. “And this,” I add, handing her the cut-out message in a grave, deliberate fashion, “is for whoever wrote on the bag.”

It now reads

_ Sunday _

and while I doubt Posy understands the nuances of grammar – I’m not even sure she can _read_ – the reply nonetheless appears to delight her.

“Thank you, miss!” she chirps. “What do you want for Sunday breakfast?”

“Whatever you’re having will be perfect,” I reply, vainly hoping this is noncommittal enough to disgruntle her brother when my answer is relayed.

“Then you really _will_ come?” she presses earnestly, and I look over her head with the fiercest glare I can muster for the man who’s hiding out there somewhere, securely out of sight. It’s a low move, sending your irresistible baby sister to get an answer you’re too proud to pursue yourself, but it’s probably my own fault.

After all, I _did_ say it would do no good to send Vick.

“Yes, Posy,” I concede, because I’m rapidly falling in love with the whole stupid Hawthorne family and this visit has drawn her a full whisker-length ahead of Vick in my affections. “I’ll see you on Sunday for breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short, largely uneventful chapter. :/ We're rapidly closing in on that fateful Sunday, never fear, and if all goes as planned there will be just one more chapter before our babes reach the woods. If you're craving more Gadge fodder in the interim, I invite you to visit my Tumblr ( **porchwood** ), where I recently queued up a glut of inspirational quotes and images for Gadge Day (October 2).
> 
> The Jude/Columbine pairing is wholly due to my occasional beta and full-time bestie **ghtlovesthg** who, upon reading a draft of Ch 2, declared that it would be awesome if Jude and Columbine got together. The idea had never even crossed my mind before and I tried in vain to unthink it, but here we are. :)
> 
>  **Edit 10/27/17:** I just caught a small but embarrassing continuity error (i.e., Madge attributing the toasting dress mention to Posy when it should have been Rory) and have corrected it accordingly. Apologies to anyone this may have confused!


	5. An Assembly of Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keenly anticipating her forthcoming visit to the woods, Madge rounds out her school week by accompanying a music assembly, with a few unexpected turns.

I wake amid a delicious feeling of anticipation, as though it’s the last day of school before a long-awaited holiday – which it _is_ , in a way. One day of school – and a music assembly day at that – one day at home, and finally Sunday in the woods with Gale.

I know I’ll be colder and wearier than I’ve ever been in my life – and probably hungrier too, before the day is done. I know Gale will waste no opportunity to mock or belittle me and will almost certainly invent additional ones, and yet I’ve never looked forward so keenly to anything in all my life.

I know he won’t hurt or compromise me in any way – if it comes down to it, he’s downright _obligated_ to protect me – and that’s sufficient to allay any vague worries that might niggle at the back of my mind.

I roll to my back and let my mind drift lazily ahead, trying to guess what that first day in the woods will even look like. Frigid, grueling hours of learning to draw, aim, and shoot a bow, with endless trips to retrieve the promised one-and-only arrow and Gale barking criticism all the while? Peeling off rabbit skins in the vicious cold, our gloves pocketed long since, and washing the blood from our cracked fingertips in the snow? Laying deadly snares with lengths of rope and wire?

I sit up with a start, abruptly recalling something vital that I haven’t yet given thought to, nor planning.

I need clothes, and quickly: proper Seam clothes of my very own. Oh, I have clothing plain and warm enough for countless inconspicuous ventures through the woods, but I want to blend in seamlessly – pardoning the expression – in the Hob as well. Everyone in Twelve may know who I am but that doesn’t mean I should run about the Seam and the back alleys of the Merchant sector in fine, pretty clothing that positively screams _mayor’s daughter_ , even if everyone _is_ being startlingly nonchalant at the prospect of my presence there.

No, I need things that are cheaply made and well-worn, if for no other reason than to gobsmack Gale Hawthorne once more.

I enjoyed the sight of his gobsmacked face immensely. It would be much easier to kiss that hard, angry mouth when it’s half-open and slack with shock.

I rub the grin from my face into the downy depths of my pillow and leave the ridiculous notion of kissing him there as well.

Foolishness aside, the last thing Gale expects is for me to arrive on Sunday morning in clothing indistinguishable from his neighbors’, and while he’ll refuse to acknowledge this as any sort of wisdom or even good sense on my part, he won’t be able to conceal a grudging respect for it, and that’s the closest to love I’ll ever get from him.

Peeping out into the hallway, I spy my first proper quarry – Briony, a laundry basket in her arms – and nip out to haul her into my room.

“I need another favor,” I inform her as solemnly as I can, considering I’m atremble with eagerness. “I need clothes.”

She glances meaningfully into the basket – several of which contents are indeed mine – then back up at my face, neither insolently nor in wry jest, but it makes me giggle nonetheless. “ _Seam_ clothes,” I clarify. “Things like you lent me the other day, but for keeps.”

I fish out the pouch of pocket money from my nightstand, heavy with months of unspent coins, and tuck it inside the basket. “Can you go to the Hob and buy me shirts, trousers, a cap and coat – maybe three outfits in all?” I ask. “You can have whatever money is left over – and more besides, if that’s not enough.”

She shakes her head in reply but her expression is one of confusion, not refusal. “Miss, you could buy much finer things straight from the Mercantile,” she protests, “and they’d last you much longer besides.”

“I have far too many fine clothes already,” I remind her, “and you can have some of those if you like for payment as well. I need _Seam_ clothes – things that wouldn’t set me apart if I was spotted on the street.”

Briony frowns. “You’d be a princess in coal dust and rags, miss,” she says, which for some reason makes me blush, much like when Jude called me the prettiest Merchant girl in Twelve, however playfully. “You’re too pale and pretty by half,” she explains. “No ragged clothes will change that.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, and I’m not trying to look like someone else,” I insist, my blush rising higher and hotter. “I just want to look less like _me_ – less like the mayor’s daughter sneaking off to the woods.”

Her frown deepens. “Don’t see why, miss,” she replies, but carefully, as though anticipating a reprimand. “Pretty as you are, there’s no need to hide it, and everyone knows it’s you hunting with Gale now –”

“And how do you think Gale would react,” I break in sternly, “if I showed up at his door in pretty winter clothes to lay snares and skin rabbits?”

To my surprise, she grins and ducks her head like the schoolgirl she was less than a year ago. “I think he’d be that pleased, miss,” she answers. “He likes your yellow hair ever so much – ‘specially with his ribbon in it,” she adds with an impish crinkle of her eyes. “And surely you’d rather look nice for the boy you love.”

I gape at her wordlessly, wondering where her grave advisements of two days ago have gone.

“I know you said not to speak of it more, miss,” she adds in a quieter tone, setting her basket on the bed and taking my hands in hers, “and I sorely hope I haven’t caused offense. I just don’t see why you’d wish to look aught than you are, especially for the sake of a boy who –”

“A very proud boy,” I quell, before she can give me more unfounded, exquisite reasons to hope. “If I came to his house on Sunday dressed like a princess, I’d never make it to the woods.”

“And no mistake,” she affirms through an irrepressible grin. “He’d have you in his arms before the hearth in two shakes and then off to bed to warm you a sight better with his –”

“That’s enough!” I bark, snatching away my hands, and her mirth abruptly vanishes.

Briony’s been something of a paid companion as well as a maid since coming to us last summer and even more so since Katniss left, but I’m entitled to a certain amount of authority over her teasing, unlike Prim’s. I can make requests of her with relative ease, but this is the first I’ve had to chide her for what might be termed over-familiarity, and the mere prospect of it makes me feel sick.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” she whispers, scooping up the basket and burying her gaze in its depths. “I shouldn’t have spoken thus and I shan’t ever do it again. Please don’t dismiss me.”

I sigh wearily, more at myself than anything else, and set the basket back on my bed so I can take her hands once more. “You’ve done little enough wrong, Briony,” I assure her. “I’m vexed of late, by Gale Hawthorne and…by my own feelings, and I ought not take it out on you.”

“I ought not tease neither,” she replies with uncommon meekness. “Forgot my place, miss, and I shan’t again–”

“You _shall_ ,” I insist with a small smile. “Indeed, I should be disappointed if you did not. But just now, can you do as I asked and buy me Seam clothes?”

A tiny echoing smile curls her mouth. “You’ll make _ever_ so lovely a Seam girl, miss,” she says shyly. “I reckon he’ll admire – I mean, you’ll cut as fine a figure as the handsomest Seamwife,” she amends in a rush. “But surely, couldn’t I bring you things from my family, rather than the Hob?” she offers. “Bristel’s little bigger than you” – this is not an insult, as most miners bear less meat on their bones than the average Merchant girl, and Briony’s brother is no exception – “and you can surely have as many of his clothes as you wish – and mine! – as cheap as you like.”

I answer this with a sad, albeit grateful smile. “Thank you for the offer,” I say, “but you’ll need every stitch of that clothing this winter, and more besides. Hob clothes will serve me just as well,” I insist, “and shop as cheaply as you like, so long as everything is somewhat sturdy. The rest of the money is yours to keep, and I’ll give you new thermals and some of my sweaters besides.”

Her brow furrows faintly, as though she’s debating whether or not to tell me something, but she says only, “That’s too much by half, miss. Any leftover coin will be more than payment enough. I’ll go straightaway after breakfast is cleared.”

I thank her profusely and return the laundry basket to her arms, and though everything seems quite settled, Briony still wears that strange frown as she departs. I wonder if she dislikes or dreads going to the Hob, but to my knowledge, Seamfolk of all ages move about freely there – far more freely than Merchant visitors – and patronize it as their own version of the Square, albeit a somewhat illicit one.

Emboldened by her compliments, I dress for the day in a long skirt of deep green velvet and a blouse patterned with roses that used to be my mother’s, with the downy white fur of my cuffs and collar for embellishment and further warmth, and tie back my hair at the temples with Gale’s ribbon. I look not unlike the winter witch-queen of my imagination when I’m finished and feel a little foolish for my pains, especially at the simultaneous raised eyebrows of my parents at breakfast, but I dismiss their curiosity with a reminder that it’s a music assembly day. While these have always been my very favorite days of school, for the past few years I’ve been recruited to accompany the singing, as the school no longer employs a music teacher and few if any of the rotation of faculty leading the assemblies know their way around a piano, and as an added bonus, I’m allotted a little time to play some of my repertoire for the students.

I’ve been working my way through a series of twelve pieces called _The Seasons_ , written by a gentleman from as long ago as fairy tales with the delicious fairy-worthy name _Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky_. My father plays some of Tchaikovsky’s festive pieces at holiday-time, from a magical winter ballet called _The Nutcracker_ that I used to dream of as a little girl, and until quite recently I would dance around the piano to the lilting strains of the “Waltz of the Flowers” with whatever partner I could find, be he a dapper velvet cushion or a weathered old broomstick, with a princely gold ribbon tied on like a neckerchief. 

 _The Seasons_ is equally lively and romantic in turns, if not quite so festive, and like so much of our literature, musical and otherwise, it was collected and reviewed for “suitability” and ultimately approved – we suspect, due to the July piece being labeled, so very timely: “Song of the Reaper.” Especially as the book was returned with a note instructing the mayor’s daughter to learn that piece in particular and play it for the after-dinner entertainment of Justice Building officials as soon as might be managed.

 _It’s a work song, magpie,_ my father soothed me later, though we both knew the Capitol intended it to serve as a cruel reminder that their Reaping is as inevitable as the arrival of summer and that its threat is every bit as near to me as to the poorest Seam child with tesserae as numerous as the stars. _I know you have never witnessed the harvest of wheat, no more than I have, but we have read of it in many books,_ he reminded me, _and surely you can hear as much in the melody and rhythms: the steady vigor of the harvesters raising their blades and voices in chorus, rejoicing to fill the storehouses that will feed them all the winter through. This piece, and the harvest song that follows, speaks of scything grain in the field, not plucking up children and cutting them down well before their prime._

Today I mean to play – from memory, so as to further evade suspicion – the piece officially designated for September: “The Hunt.” It sounds nothing like Katniss nor Gale nor, I suspect, a day of true hunting whatsoever – rather, I’d hazard, what hunting might sound like if conducted by citizens of the Capitol: a pompous horseback parade through a landscaped wilderness, along which route, every now and again, small game is obligingly driven, to be fired upon by jeweled rifles and golden crossbows – but I think it more appropriate a selection than any other for this, the penultimate day before I step into the woods: a nascent huntress in my own right. It will serve as clever way to thumb my nose at the Capitol from the heart of the school, and its quick cheerful manner will appease anyone who might otherwise suspect a dangerous title or theme.

The January piece, “At the Fireside,” is equally appropriate to the occasion and a little warmer and mellower in nature, and I’ll conclude my set with that.

“What are you playing today?” my father asks with careful nonchalance.

“Tchaikovsky’s _Seasons_ , September and January,” I reply, smiling with my eyes, and he returns the expression with approval.

Our everyday caution is heightened when it comes to books and music, because if a piece is ruled seditious or otherwise threatening to the present order of things it will be destroyed: officially, taken to the incinerator in the basement of the Justice Building, where their own sensitive documents are securely disposed of, but my father suspects that most if not all such seized art and literature makes its way to President Snow’s mansion instead, either for his own private enjoyment or to be reissued with strategic edits as new media for Capitol citizens.

In any case, we may well be the only people in Twelve, if not all of Panem, possessing a copy of any given story or suite, and so every volume of words or music is priceless and treated accordingly. My father’s copy of _The Nutcracker_ , its ornate oversized pages yellowed with age and crumbling at the edges, is painstakingly, perpetually concealed behind the wainscoting in the ballroom; indeed, I’ve seen it only twice in my entire life. He’s known all the pieces by heart since he was my age and insists I learn my repertoire in the same fashion, in case the sheet music should ever be taken away.

My father has taught me a little music theory over the years, though my brain doesn’t like transcribing sound into symbols as much as translating those symbols into tangible magic simply by striking narrow strips of wood in the right sequence, and every so often he’ll assign me to write out a piece from memory. It takes ages just to mark out the staves and while he’ll accept the melody alone, he continually presses for the harmonies, chords, countermelodies; every last detail I can wring from my brain.

 _Your grandmother had twice the music we do,_ he reminds me gently in the midst of my frustration. _An entire bookshelf’s worth, floor to ceiling, and before the Dark Days, her family’s collection would fill a room. You can memorize as much as you want, but unless you pass along all the destroyed pieces you have learned in your turn, either by teaching them to someone or better still, creating a handwritten copy, when you die they may be gone forever._

I wonder if harsh, practical Gale will see any value in music – if, perhaps, that’s a dormant part of Jack Everdeen in him that I’m meant to find and stir like an ember. _If he’s living off music lessons, even in part, he’ll have to concede it_ some _value,_ I think wryly, _whether or not he cares two pins for music in its own regard._

For the first time I wonder whether Gale has ever heard Katniss sing – perhaps in the woods, where she’s happiest. Peeta wasn’t the only one captivated by that tiny fairy child on our first day of school, nor the only one to observe the reverent silence of her songbird court, and I wonder to this day whether her father mightn’t have been the very Pied Piper of Panem, leading those lost miners through poisoned smoke and perilous darkness, far away from the living death of District Twelve, by the lamp of his silver voice.

To be sure, Katniss could lead us all into the woods like so many rats and do with us whatever she pleased, simply by raising her voice in song.

“Add the Troika,” my father suggests. “Sleighs are still on the mind at present,” and I wonder whether Katniss is visiting his thoughts as well. The breathtaking daughter of Winter himself, dressed head to foot in furs, borne across a frozen lake by tuft-footed ponies to the gentle baker’s son who won her with warm milk and fresh bread.

I wonder whether that snow maiden will melt in spring: not to death – though it may feel something like, as I know only too well – but to love and longing. Whether she might open like an iron-petaled blossom and surrender her heart to the gaze and protection of another, who loves her volumes more than she has ever loved herself – surely more than she has ever imagined any man could love a woman.

I wonder if my beloved will ever yield his heart to any maiden or if, like as not, it’s made of stone and will crack, not melt, when heated.

“You must play for your lover, petal,” my mother’s voice breaks into my mental ramblings, so softly that for a moment I’m certain I’m imagining it. “Bid him warm himself by the parlor fire and woo him with the spindrift of your fingers over the keys.”

This remark is so unexpected, not to mention absurd, that I look up with a start, afraid that my mother is inevitably, irrevocably drifting back into that haunted dream state in which she’s dwelt for so much of my life, only to find her grinning like Prim at her wickedest and my father blushing like a schoolboy caught in misbehavior. “There was very little wooing intended, Maddi,” he protests, but weakly, and she takes one of his pale, long-fingered hands in both of hers and raises it to her lips.

“A fireside chair on a winter evening and a lover at the piano is as powerful a magic as any the Everdeens ever wrought,” she counters huskily, but her eyes are merry. “And you are as deft a magician as your father, petal.”

“It would take far more than a fire in the parlor to entice Gale Hawthorne into this house, let alone to sit and listen to me play piano,” I declare dryly and get up from the table, eager to excuse myself from the tenderness kindling between them. “Do you think you can make it for the assembly?” I ask my father.

He attends them whenever possible, if for no other reason than to hear live music outside the confines of his own parlor. Before he became mayor – in his teaching days – he took more turns than most at leading the assemblies and served as accompanist when it wasn’t his turn to lead, and I know he misses it desperately.

“I’ll be there,” my mother says, to my astonishment. “It’s just before lunch, yes? I’ll stay and eat with you after.”

It’s virtually unheard-of for parents to have lunch with their children at school, but at least part of that is due to the simple fact that everyone works during the day. My father steals away to join me on my birthday when he can, even if all he can manage is a quick hug and a gaily packaged sweet before returning straightaway to work, but my mother has never been to school – let alone out and about, until recently – in midday.

My father’s entire countenance lights up at her words. “I’ll move mountains to be there,” he promises us both. “Though there’s every chance some pointless yet exceedingly important matter will be raised just as I attempt to sneak out, to firmly rout my escape.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I assure him and impulsively kiss them both before heading off to school.

I’m passing the bakery when I meet Prim on her way out, pies in pail, looking like the cat that ate the cream and the canary all in one go.

“You appear to have something to tell me,” I greet her with deliberate coolness, yesterday’s delivery of lavender lozenges rearing to the forefront of my mind.

“More than you know,” she replies with equally deliberate, if less successful, calm. “For starters: Mom really _did_ need me for a paying customer yesterday,” she begins, “when Vick called me downstairs.”

“Will wonders never cease,” I answer dryly. “Dare I ask what, if anything, this has to do with what arrived on my doorstep not ten minutes later?”

“Nearly everything, as it happens,” she remarks, no longer troubling to hide her amusement. “You see: Gale got back early – while we were upstairs having our coffee.”

I missed seeing him by a hairsbreadth. There’s a painful lurch in my chest, as though my heart clomped sideways.

“Did you know?” I croak, intending to demand this with grace and authority and failing utterly on both counts.

“Do you really think I’d have let you go so easily?” she asks in turn. “Anyway, I knew you’d forgotten your hat the moment you ran out –”

“Or you expressly took off my hat in hopes that I’d forget it and have to come back,” I challenge.

“It was a contingency plan,” she admits without shame. “But of course, I knew you’d never willingly come back to the shop if there was a chance even one Hawthorne might still be there.

“So I went downstairs, where the kids had decided – without any help from me,” she adds, both pointedly and merrily, “that their newly arrived brother needed to buy a certain reluctant young lady a present: a peace offering, as it were,” she explains. “While they don’t know what’s happened between you two, he wouldn’t ask you about Sunday himself and you didn’t want to answer him directly, which was more than sufficient to suggest a quarrel.

“I _may_ have mentioned that you’re fond of the lavender lozenges, that we’d just made a fresh batch, and that your mother would use them if you didn’t want them,” she goes on with all the bright-eyed innocence of a newly hatched chick. “So Gale bought you a pound of them – not the lot, mind, but a sight more than the average customer – and since we had to return your hat as quickly as possible and I was busy at the counter, there was nothing for it but to send Posy.”

“Nothing for it but to send Posy?” I rasp, my head spinning and endeavoring to refute what she’s saying all at once.

“Well, you didn’t want Vick,” she replies with a grin. “Rory was quite explicit about that, and I hastened to add that, with Vick being _ever_ so much prettier than Gale, you were likely to fall head over heels in love if _he_ came to your door with a bag of lavender lozenges.

“And then you –” She chokes on a bubble of laughter, as though she almost can’t believe what she’s about to say. “The boy who purportedly ‘wouldn’t buy a treat for his girl if you handed him a bag of money and marched him at gunpoint to the sweet-shop counter’ sent you a whopping _pound_ of lavender lozenges,” she recounts with gleeful relish. “And you promptly ripped the bag apart, wrapped it around a slice of pie for Posy and sent back his message with the meagerest gesture that could be called a reply.”

It takes all the strength I possess not to bury my face in my hands and beg the snow beneath my boots to swallow me up.

If what she said is true – and impossible though it sounds, why would it not be? – Gale Hawthorne, the boy who presently won’t even _speak_ to me, spent _money_ on me. On a pretty, almost frivolous sort of present, whatever its meaning or motivation, and I all but threw it back at his head.

And I can’t even accuse Prim of hiding this from me because the gift was delivered by Gale’s sister and addressed in his hand. Oh, I could accuse _Posy_ till I was blue in the face, except that I could never do any such thing, not to mention I knew she was lying immediately and _still_ misjudged the situation. The presence of the dream-inducing lozenges certainly suggested that Prim played a role, but they could just as easily have been sent by her mother or even ordered by mine. Minus the presence of my hat, there was no clear indication that Prim was involved in any part, and yet I suspected her of masterminding the whole enterprise and acted accordingly toward an unprecedented – and surely now, never to be repeated – token from the boy I love.

“Promise me you didn’t throw them away,” she implores. “I know you must be livid but they aren’t the cheapest things to be had, and –”

“What sort of fool do you take me for?” I demand, my cheeks scalding with anger that she could think such a thing of me. “I refilled my mother’s supply and put the rest in a little jar in my nightstand, for sleepless nights.”

“I’m sorry,” she placates, holding up a hand in apology. “For what it’s worth: no one knows about your dream, or that there was anything significant about the lozenges themselves,” she adds quietly. “The kids thought they were pretty and smelled nice and liked that they might help you get a good night’s sleep. And I did ask Mom later if she’d altered the recipe to add mugwort or some other herb, but she hadn’t.”

I give a slow, frustrated sigh and stare at her for a long moment, trying to think of something – _anything_ – to reply.

“I’m sorry for finding it so funny,” she says miserably. “I knew you’d be upset but I didn’t think it would hit you quite this hard.”

“Gale bought me a present,” I answer numbly, still struggling to accept this detail.

“Yes, he did,” she affirms, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “A peace offering, mind you, but an unsolicited token nonetheless, and with nothing asked in return.”

Something snaps into place at these words and I glare darkly at her in realization. “But _of course_ something was asked in return, or expected,” I counter, knowing all too well the life-and-death gravity of Seamfolk trades and transactions. “I’m supposed to be nicer to him, or more patient, never mind how he treats me!”

I whirl about and stalk off through a snowdrift – back toward my house, not the school.

“Where are you going?” Prim calls after me.

“To get the stupid lozenges and some money,” I retort without looking back. “In case he won’t take them back, he can have the equivalent in cash.”

Prim skitters around in front of me and plants her hands on my shoulders, halting my progress with her slight weight and sheer force of will. “You’re worse than Katniss!” she exclaims, exasperated. “For pity’s sake: _let the man court you!_ You’re both free to act on your feelings and he’s already made an overture –”

“That wasn’t an overture,” I snap, pushing back against her but with frustration only, not any real physical strength. “That was a bribe, and one I’m not minded to accept.”

“Not a bribe,” she insists. “He kept saying you didn’t want anything from him, you wouldn’t accept it, it would only make you angrier still – why do you think Posy said it wasn’t from him?” she interjects on her own behalf. “But when I went to put the seal on the bag, he couldn’t stop looking at the spool of violet ribbon that we tie around gift orders, like it was taking all that he had not to ask for one on your package.”

“And you didn’t just throw one on for kicks?” I counter dryly.

“ _Not – my – courtship_ ,” she reminds me, digging in her heels and giving my shoulders a mighty heave. “I didn’t want to add a sweetheart’s token where he didn’t intend one and give you the wrong idea.”

I sigh deep and crossly in resignation and let my body slack, catching Prim by the elbows so neither of us goes toppling over into the snow. “He really wanted to give me something?” I ask doubtfully.

“It didn’t _start_ as his idea, but he took very little convincing and none of it very good,” she replies, her impishness flooding back in delighted force. “If he’d met his siblings at the mercantile you might’ve gotten something more useful out of the deal, but as it is, you and your mother get a winter’s worth of sweet dreams at Gale Hawthorne’s expense.”

“I don’t like it,” I declare.

“Yes you do, and that’s why you’re so terrifically upset,” she rejoins cheerfully. “Well, that and the fact that you misunderstood the gift and responded to it accordingly.”

“Was he _very_ angry?” I whisper. “When Posy came back with the torn-up bag wrapped around a piece of pie – and my measly excuse for a reply?”

She grins like she holds the most delicious secret in all the world. “He raised an eyebrow at the pie,” she reveals. “Like he really _wanted_ to be offended but might’ve _almost_ been amused, and when he saw your note, he very carefully managed not to smile.”

My lips sprawl into a foolish smile of their own accord, hastily rubbed away, but not before Prim can witness it. “Don’t get too excited,” she warns, but merrily. “When Posy relayed that you'd be coming over for Sunday breakfast, he scowled to high heaven and told them they’d be scouring every inch of the house – and taking baths besides – before you’d set one lily-white foot inside.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I sputter through an encroaching blush. “They’re not going to boil gallons of water on my account–!”

I break off as Prim erupts into laughter. “You have no idea how badly I want to be there on Sunday morning, for _so_ many reasons,” she says. “Maybe I can invite myself to stay over Saturday night –”

“Lest you forget, two of the Hawthornes are eligible prospects for a girl your age,” I remind her, “and I don’t think your sweetheart would be altogether pleased for you to sleep over in a household with two such prospects about.”

“He wouldn’t at that,” she concedes thoughtfully. “He said he wished I could find a sweetheart my own age, or closer to, but it made him downright sick to say the words, and Mellarks never rest easy when there’s a Hawthorne about, never mind how disinterested the respective Everdeen.”

I grin, take her arm, and steer us around in the direction of the school. “But you _like_ having a contingency plan,” I needle playfully, with a poke at her ribs. “And Rory admires you _ever_ so much –”

“Truce!” she begs, shifting her lunch pail onto her forearm to offer me that hand to shake. “I’ll stop teasing you about Vick if you stop teasing me about Rory.”

“I shall certainly consider it,” I concede, clasping her mittened hand firmly. “But as I know you’ll never relinquish Gale as teasing fodder, I reserve the right to torment you all I like about your hulking yellow-haired sweetheart.”

“I would expect no less,” she replies, her eyes twinkling like lamplight on snow, and together we make our merry way to school.

Music assembly takes the place of third period, giving every student a little holiday, but I get to miss half of second period as well to coordinate with the assembly leader – today, Miss Farlow, whose mathematical brain gives her a unique appreciation for music, if not an aptitude for producing it herself. Like the rest of the faculty she’s Merchant-born without a business of her own, though her strong head for figures would have made her a coveted accountant in wealthier times, and I’m a bit surprised no Merchant bachelor has snatched her up to manage the books for his family’s business. While not especially striking in appearance, she has a pleasant sort of prettiness and an even-tempered manner that would be welcome at one’s fireside of an evening.

“We’ll start with the anthem, of course,” she tells me with a surreptitious poke of the tip of her tongue out one corner of her mouth.

“Panem forever,” I concur gravely with a subtle eye-roll of my own as I duly lay out the unnecessary sheet music.

Outside the context of the Reaping, the Hunger Games themselves, and the Victory Tour, the Capitol’s stately anthem feels as out of place in the backwoods mining village that is District Twelve as the biannual appearances of Effie Trinket. It’s the most ridiculous sort of – _anachronism,_ I think the word is – and ironic to boot, considering the tune they chose, but we’re only called upon to sing it at special school functions, such as music assembly days, and, depending on who’s in town for Saturday dinners, I may be instructed to play it for our guests after the meal.  My father passed along his faint recollection of the original lyrics, which are far better suited to charismatic revolutionaries like Jack Everdeen and Peeta Mellark than bloated Capitol politicians, and I let these occupy my mind as my fingers grandly recite the tune.

 _See, the conqu'ring hero comes!_  
_Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!_  
_Sports prepare! The laurel bring!  
__Songs of triumph to him sing!_  

 _Laurel again,_ I muse with mild curiosity, and wonder why Ashpet Everdeen would have given her fading newborn daughter a name almost synonymous with victory. To be fair, “Laurel” is as steeped in our Appalachian origins as “Ashpet” and in far more common circulation, and a swiftly snuffed life in Twelve could be construed as a bitter sort of triumph, but Ashpet was made of fiercer stuff than that, even after the loss of her husband and baby girl, and shrewd as a vixen to boot. 

She sang songs that reduced my own grandmother to tears, not merely at the beauty of her voice – which was accounted as legendary as that of her face – but because those melodies had never before been heard in these parts, nor since, unless Jack managed to pick them up in his turn, or Katniss in hers. Grandma Annalise was the first to suspect where the Greenbriers’ fey foundling had truly come from, and those songs provided the best clue of all.

 _Haydn,_ Gran told me once in a reverent whisper, a few months before she died, as she stroked the loveliest melody from the piano that I had ever heard, at once grand as a parade and gentle as the rocking of a cradle. _How could that wild wood-sprite know_ Haydn _– the very tune these wretches should have chosen for their anthem, had they any cleverness at all?_

 _It sounds more like a lullaby,_ I remarked from my place beside her on the bench, and she looked up from the keyboard with that canny _speaking_ expression that those of us who brush against dangerous information on a daily basis swiftly learn to master and exchange.

 _And so it was, for her,_ she replied in a hush, her fingers continuing by rote to provide a melodic cover for our dialogue. _So she told me, when I asked. Who would rock their child to the_ Deutschlandlied _?_

My father was mayor then and my mother bedridden by her headaches, and in my slow lonely laps from one end of the Justice Building to the other, I had noticed something intriguing that I returned to as often as I dared: a photograph better fit for a storybook, and the subject’s name every bit as magical as Tchaikovsky’s.

I leaned so close my lips brushed Gran’s ear and whispered, _A German prince, perhaps?_

Her fingers faltered on the keys, striking a dissonant chord. _It may well mean nothing for us, and_ do _still less,_ she murmured, gliding seamlessly back into the song as though no mistake had been made. _But it doesn’t_ fit _in this world they’ve built up around us, and that makes it very curious indeed._ Hopeful _, even, one might say._

That was all we spoke of it, then or after, and once Gran had played her way through five variations of Ashpet Everdeen’s mysterious lullaby, we adjourned to the sunroom for lemonade and shortbread and eager tidbits of benign town gossip, as though it was no different from any other afternoon on any other day. I have yet to voice my suspicions about Ashpet’s antecedent to either of my parents, though my father knows full well which corridor I like to haunt on those days when I have cause to meet him at work and which portrait I raise a hand in front of, obscuring everything below the eyes. He’s a perceptive and highly intelligent man, despite his unprepossessing appearance, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he already knows, and has for a good long while.

“What about requests?” I ask Miss Farlow, nudging my mind back to the present.

“Well, it _is_ less than a week since New Year’s,” she reminds me with a crooked smile.

“How many people are singing ‘Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair’?” I groan, and she laughs.

“We should have twenty-three if they all come up for it,” she answers cheerfully.

Most students don’t give a moment’s thought to performing in the assemblies, save for the big formal one at the end of June, before the eighteen-year-olds head off to their final Reaping, but of course, this one fell unusually close to New Year’s. Everyone’s still soaring – or smarting – from their ribbon exchanges and thus all the love songs, requited and otherwise, get trotted out for a recitation. They can pick any song they like from our primer and I’m expected to accompany them on demand unless they supply their own accompaniment – highly unlikely, as few of Twelve’s residents can read music and fewer still have access to instruments – and while I’m competent at sight-reading, I play through the primer at least every couple of months, cover to cover, so as not to be caught off-guard.

Depending on the number of requests submitted to the assembly leader in the weeks preceding, there may also be group singing – which, depending on said leader, could include anything from favorite folk songs to old nationalistic tunes clunkily reworded in praise of Panem – or the leader may take the opportunity to teach a less familiar song, sometimes enlisting one or more students to perform it for their classmates before everyone attempts it en masse.

On occasion, the teacher leading the assembly might be secretly, passionately musical and will perform several pieces themselves, with my accompaniment – and a good bit of rehearsing ahead of time – if needed, while others don’t care two pins about music or the assemblies themselves and will vaguely wave the students through the singing of the anthem before handing the whole thing over to Madge Undersee for an impromptu piano concert. Having played for audiences including President Snow, Head Peacekeeper Cray, and Gamemakers visiting incognito, I’m reasonably comfortable with a large group of indifferent listeners, especially when they’re more interested in talking amongst themselves than seeking out mistakes in – or even paying attention to – my performance, but after fifteen or twenty such minutes the whispers and snickers start to get to me, even though I know it can’t all be related to me or my playing.

If Katniss hadn’t left with Peeta in November, I would have begged her to perform a set with me from my father’s ancient, priceless copy of _The Oxford Book of Carols_.

Not the nativity ones, of course – “The Praise of Christmas” neatly evades any such reference and would be exceptionally lovely with her fluid range and shimmering timbre – though I can’t help wondering what exactly Jack Everdeen passed down to his daughters through that immeasurable oral repertoire.

“It should be a nice mix,” Miss Farlow says. “Aside from the lovesick ‘Black is the Color’ mob, we have a group of twelve-year-old girls singing ‘Jingle Bells’ –”

“Well, sleighs _are_ on the mind at present,” I remark with a smile, marking the song in my copy of the primer.

“Then we have the Donner Trio singing ‘A Marshmallow World,’” she goes on. “It’s not in the primer but–”

“I know it by heart,” I assure her.

It’s a favorite “party piece” of my mother’s family, as traditional at our winter gatherings as folk songs are to the rest of Twelve, and so catchy and innocuous that I’ve heard Justice Building officials whistling it on their way home from the festive evening we host for them on the last Saturday before New Year’s.

When your livelihood and heritage lie in a luxury trade, as candymaking must inevitably appear to our poor little district, you can either carry it like a loathsome and shameful burden hanging around your neck, making self-deprecating comments in front of anyone who might resent you for the source of your family’s income, or you can cheerfully embrace it as a part of your identity. My cousins have opted for the latter, performing sunny songs about sweets – or at least, full of the language thereof – in their tuneful trio of voices at assemblies throughout the year and even donning little confectionery accents for the occasion.

I anticipate red and white ribbons in their hair today, twined in peppermint-stick fashion, or perhaps multicolored ribbons curled and shaped to simulate glossy ribbon candy.

“…and Jude Tolliver and Luka Mellark are singing ‘I Gave My Love a Cherry’ –” Miss Farlow goes on, jarring me back to the matter at hand.

“Does Luka know he's signed up for that?” I wonder, and she returns my grin.

“One hopes,” she says merrily. “That one’s on you, if you’re willing?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I declare.

“And finally, Columbine and Bracken Wilhearn are singing a duet to round things out,” she concludes, glancing back at her handwritten list and thus missing my wince. “‘Roving on a Winter’s Night,’ which I don’t think I’ve heard since we lost Jack Everdeen. They’ll accompany themselves on mandolin and dulcimer, so you get a little break there, and then we’ll close with your piano solos. How does that sound?”

I scowl faintly in lieu of a reply, irritated that Columbine has found a way to infringe upon this happiest of mornings, and with a beautiful song to boot. The Wilhearns are wealthy enough to own instruments _and_ allot their children ample free time to practice them, so Columbine and her siblings frequently volunteer to perform, both in the school assemblies and at community events like the Harvest Festival. Bracken, younger by two years, is a quiet amiable boy and a duet will divide the attention Columbine would otherwise soak up in total, and I should be delighted not to have to accompany her on a solo as I have on three previous occasions, but today it almost feels like a dig. Like I’m beneath them somehow, or Columbine wants to make a point of not needing me, never mind they’d have signed up for the duet several weeks ago.

Her voice will never rival Katniss’s but it’s lovely enough to render her a very pleasing package indeed, especially in Katniss’s absence.

I find myself suddenly, fiercely glad that Gale is no longer in school with us, even if that means he won’t hear me play the hunting song. After all, he’d only make fun of it – or of _me_ , like as not, for being an idle rich girl with time lying so heavily on my hands that I turn them to memorizing silly pieces.

“I said: is everything all right?” Miss Farlow asks softly, and clearly for the second time, making me look up with a start. “You’ve never been tardy before Tuesday and I didn’t record it then, thinking perhaps you’d had some delay at home, but yesterday you ran out of class looking nauseous and…”

She trails off, biting her lips together, and drops her voice still more. “Madge, I feel terrible asking this,” she says, “but could you be pregnant?”

My jaw drops wide as a fish’s and my cheeks burn with mortification, not shame. “ _Could_ I?” I challenge in a hiss, aghast that anyone – let alone my math teacher – could have put the pieces together in such a pattern. “I’ve never even _kissed_ a boy!”

She raises a hand to placate and apologize at once. “I suspected as much,” she admits, which somehow only embarrasses me more, “and I hope you’ll forgive the question. I just – I know that your father is much occupied with the running of the district and your mother is ill, and your best friend has gone away besides,” she explains gently. “And now to hear of some – dubious, shall we say – plans with an older boy –”

“Was it dubious when Katniss went to the woods with him?” I interject in a fierce whisper and she smiles.

“It should have been,” she concedes, “but you know better than anyone how she looked – or rather, _didn’t look_ – at boys, and she was half-wild herself. You’re a full-blooded Merchant girl,” she reminds me. “The mayor’s only child, and – Gale Hawthorne has a bit of a reputation.”

“Not for getting girls pregnant,” I counter coldly and hope to my bones that I’m right.

“Not for getting girls pregnant,” she agrees without hesitation, to my immense relief. “But he _is_ a passionate young man and – he might try to seduce you for any number of reasons.”

If the notion of Gale _luring_ me into his bed – in a cramped sooty Seam house with his laundress mother and three little siblings underfoot – wasn’t so ridiculous, I’d say she wasn’t far wrong. Gale resents Merchants almost as much as he hates the Capitol and my family sits a painful notch nearer that pedestal, at least in his eyes. Enticing me into a degrading marriage or even taking his fill of me physically, whether or not I wound up pregnant, would make a fine act of defiance against the despised mayor’s family, and if he got me for a wife, there would be money and other small comforts thrown into the deal, to say nothing of a girl beneath the coverlets to slake his lust and, every now and again, produce another one of those children he supposedly wants.

I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Gale must have been inwardly delighted – nay, _gleeful_ – when I demanded to be his hunting partner, and that’s why he agreed so readily – and why he’s kept confirming that I haven’t changed my mind after his false step with the kiss. A little white rabbit hopped right into a snare he didn’t even have to set and he couldn’t resist toying with her, and now he’s desperate not to let her get away.

I should hate him more than ever, except I love him to distraction and something in me doesn’t quite believe that Miss Farlow has the right of it. I know Gale doesn’t love me – nor for that matter, ever will – but if it’s all just a cruel game of seduction and humiliation, why would he involve his siblings? And while his mother can’t be overly fond of the Merchant folk whose clothing she launders, I suspect she’d box Gale’s ears, and then some, if she discovered he was up to something so reprehensible.

More to the point: it’s not like any Merchant bride, even the mayor’s only daughter, comes with a handsome dowry. Yes, I’d bring a certain measure of money and comfort to the union – linens, dishes, small furnishings and the like – but without a trade of my own I would ultimately be little more than one more mouth to feed. With Gale’s new job, the Hawthornes are much better off than the typical Seam family, and it would be stupid in the extreme for him to marry a girl he didn’t love and take on her care and feeding for the rest of her life, just so he could debase her and wound her family by extension.

 _Which means,_ concludes Prim’s merry voice in my head, _that Gale Hawthorne is completely, utterly, head over heels in love with you._

 _Or,_ I counter wryly, _he plans to save a lot of money and headaches and just get under my skirts at the slag heap._

But if Columbine is to be believed and Gale’s never bedded any of his conquests to date, why would he attempt it with the one girl in Twelve who could easily see him punished for it? While it’s not a crime to engage in premarital – or for that matter, extramarital – sex in Twelve, where copious offspring are as valued a commodity as a rich lode of coal, there are a handful of strictures that give it consequences. In particular: if an unmarried boy and girl in Twelve become lovers but he leaves her to marry someone else, he can be heavily fined for “breach of promise,” especially if his original girl is pregnant. A similar penalty falls on a married man who impregnates a widow.

It sounds uncharacteristically sentimental on the part of district lawmakers till you remember that production of new workers and tributes is our true industry, and an unwed mother is likelier to suffer malnutrition during her pregnancy, resulting in a weaker child or even the loss of it. As it is, the fines – steep by Merchant standards and astronomical by Seam – are intended for the Capitol’s coffers, not the abandoned mother and child nor even the running of the district, and I believe there’s only been cause to enforce them three times since my father took office.

The case would be a little more tenuous without a pregnancy, but if the mayor’s daughter was deflowered by a Seam man who promptly swanned off to marry his own true love, he would end up selling everything he had in a feeble attempt to pay the fine before dying of hunger or cold in the street, and his family wouldn’t be far behind.

But all of that aside: if Gale truly wants to be a father like his siblings claim, would he really bed a girl he cares nothing for and take the chance that she might conceive his child?

“No,” I tell Miss Farlow firmly. “He may not like me very much, but he’d have no reason to seduce me.”

She smiles faintly. “To woo you, then,” she allows. “If you’re not concerned for your reputation, at least have a care for your heart.”

“My heart is in absolutely no danger of being stolen by Gale Hawthorne,” I dismiss, because it’s been in his possession for the past three days already, and probably longer still. “Now, what did you have in mind for group songs?”

Miss Farlow’s structured approach makes her an easy leader to work with, and we map out the program in a few minutes with nary another mention of Gale Hawthorne, then I have just enough time to run through each of the requested pieces quickly before students begin trailing into the hall. I typically play some of my rehearsal repertoire for background music as they arrive, but owing to the festive air of today’s event, I opt for lively seasonal tunes instead. For good or for ill, I don’t tend to look out at the audience during the assembly, but copious New Year’s ribbons, both red and white, reappeared in braids and around arms this morning, and I anticipate a more colorful crowd than usual today.

Once all the students have arrived and settled into their seats, Miss Farlow joins me on the stage and we dutifully open with the anthem, then segue brightly into our seasonal fare as she calls up the group of twelve-year-old Merchant girls for their rendering of “Jingle Bells,” white ribbons in their identical blonde pigtails and strings of tiny bells in hand for percussion. The effect is utterly endearing but I can’t help shaking my head at how childish – and appropriately so – they seem compared to their classmate, the apothecary apprentice with the strapping twenty-one-year-old heir to Twelve’s bakery in keeping.

My cousins make an equally charming picture with their festive red-and-white frocks and New Year’s ribbons curled into _peppermint_ ribbon candy – making me right on both counts – and I can’t resist quietly singing along with the Donners’ infectious winter theme:

 _Those are marshmallow clouds being friendly_  
_In the arms of the evergreen trees_  
_And the sun is red like a pumpkin head  
__It's shining so your nose won't freeze._  

Now more than ever, I’m profoundly grateful that Gale is no longer in school with us and therefore through with attending these assemblies. While he’s heard this song before and inevitably noticed me singing along as I accompany my cousins, if he was here today I know I’d never hear the end of it, and our trip to the woods – indeed, our hunting partnership – would be cut tragically short when, after countless insults, I ran him through with a peppermint stick.

Being descended from candymakers may seem like a ridiculous heritage to an angry Seam boy, but I refuse to be ashamed of it. While most residents of this district are lucky to afford one visit to Donners’ per year, it’s always an occasion of pure joy, even if they walk out with one tiny piece of peppermint to split five ways – and looks and smells have always been free. For over half of the children attending this assembly, New Year’s means pressing your frostbitten face against the window of the sweet-shop and drinking in the clouds of chocolate, peppermint, and caramelized sugar that waft out each time a paying customer departs, and for such children, a bustling sweet-shop in the heart of their derelict little district can turn the cruelest season of the year into a marshmallow world, at least for the weeks surrounding New Year’s.

The program starts out much like any other, save for a hilarious awkward moment when the twenty-three students who requested to sing “Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” are summoned en masse for a group performance. I didn’t see a list of names and Miss Farlow doesn’t read them out, but only fourteen kids go up, and conspicuously, none of them are Merchants. I wonder how many lost their nerve and how many simply didn’t want to take the stage alongside their sweetheart’s siblings or romantic rivals.

After centuries of being trotted out for recitations in these parts, the song’s become a monotonous old chestnut that I could plod through blindfolded in my sleep while standing on my head, but this time around snatches of the lyrics catch at my brain like exquisite barbs:

 _If he on earth no more I see,  
_ _My life will quickly leave me…_

 _I'll write him a note in a few little lines,  
__I’ll suffer death ten thousand times…_  

I scowl fiercely and pound out the chords for the fourth verse running, reminding myself that this song may once have meant – may _still_ mean – a great deal to circumstance-bound sweethearts like Peeta Mellark and I should really be more considerate of their plight, no matter how I feel about the black-haired young man in my sphere. Just the same, my gratitude at Gale’s absence redoubles, and I note with interest that Columbine isn’t a part of the lovesick group – like as not, because she has her own showpiece coming up, but I can’t help wondering if she’d requested this song as well but then refused to go up and make her declaration alongside a dozen of her classmates.

When Miss Farlow summons Jude and Luka for their duet, I dare a glance into the audience to see if I can catch Luka’s reaction, but by the time I spot him he’s on his way up behind his cousin, primer in hand and wearing a scowl to rival Gale at his finest. The Mellarks have pleasant enough voices – the baker’s, my father mentioned once, is surprisingly beautiful – but music is not considered their strong suit, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen one of them take the stage at an assembly.

It’s customary to dress up for an assembly performance, if not a requirement – even non-performing students often don their best for the occasion – and Luka’s ignorance is as obvious in that respect as in his frantic paging through the primer. While his dark sweater and corduroys are as neat as ever, he looks a sad shadow beside his cousin’s red-and-white gingham shirt and red neckerchief – even Jude’s socks, peeping out from beneath the cuff of his trousers, are red as sweetheart ribbons.

“It’ll be good for you,” Jude murmurs to his poor cousin, throwing me a wink, and I wonder just how much he knows about Luka’s impossible love. Luka’s sweetheart is most definitely not present at this assembly and I can’t imagine her being won by this of all songs.

Despite his antics, Jude has a bone-melting tenor voice – another area where his Seam heritage shines through – and he sings the first verse of the beloved riddle song with nary a hint of humor or self-deprecation:

 _I gave my love a cherry that has no stone,_  
_I gave my love a chicken that has no bone;_  
_I gave my love a ring that has no end,  
_ _I gave my love a baby that’s no cryin’._

I wonder why he chose this particular song, if it’s directed toward Columbine, and if she has the slightest idea that he loves her. I wonder if it would even affect her to know. 

The cousins exchange a look before the second verse – traditionally sung by a child – which, of course, is Luka’s labor. I’ve never heard him sing on his own, and while he begins the verse with clear hesitation, his voice is warm and resonant; lovelier than I suspect any of us were prepared to believe, and a fine counterpart to Jude’s:

 _How can there be a cherry that has no stone?_  
_How can there be a chicken that has no bone?_  
_How can there be a ring that has no end?  
_ _How can there be a baby with no cryin’?_

I silently applaud Jude for drawing attention to his cousin’s voice, though I can’t help worrying that Luka’s crowd of admirers will only grow – exponentially – after this demonstration, and he’ll wind up hiding in his bedroom for the rest of his days, staring at the ceiling and pining for his impossible love. 

Though now I think of it, there’s a poignant song in one of my father’s books about yearning after a girl with the same name – and one suspects, in a comparable situation – as Luka’s sweetheart, and I resolve to dig it out when I get home. I doubt he’d let me teach it to him, of course, but I could at least write out the lyrics for him, so he’d have something to mull over while he stares and pines.

The cousins sing the third verse together, with Luka supplying commendable harmonies:

 _A cherry when it's blooming, it has no stone,_  
_A chicken when it’s pippin’, it has no bone;_  
_A ring when it’s rolling, it has no end,_  
_A baby when it's sleeping, it's no cryin’.  
_ _A baby when it's sleeping, it's no cryin’._

I expect the students to erupt at the end – after all, Luka and Jude are both lively, popular young men and singing such a tender duet is a bold, out-of-character display that they pulled off magnificently – but the response is surprisingly subdued. No whoops or cheers, only wordless, emphatic applause that goes on much longer than usual, and I wonder if the audience genuinely admires the cousins for their presentation or if their respective unrequited loves are better known than they think, and their classmates are commending their bravery in this declaration of sorts. 

Jude gives me a gratified, bittersweet smile over his shoulder as they return to their seats, and I return it with a little nod – in part for what he’s done but also because I know what’s coming. The last piece of the assembly before my pointless piano set.

I move to a chair at the side of the stage and Miss Farlow calls up Columbine and her brother for their duet. Bracken has donned jaunty red suspenders and a matching neckerchief for the occasion, plus the inevitable red ribbon around his left arm, but Columbine is heart-stopping. Her dress – a warm wintry plaid of red and evergreen, clearly tailored by their mother’s deft needle – fits her like the proverbial glove, and her hair is half swept up into a crown of red ribbons and half lying in curls against her creamy neck. She holds both instruments while Bracken brings the piano stool front and center for her to sit on, a dull stab of a reminder that I have been made obsolete by their performance.

They know the mandolin and dulcimer equally well and play them interchangeably, but I ungraciously surmise that Columbine chose the dulcimer for today’s performance because of the becoming picture she makes with the long slender instrument lying across her lap. It’s traditional to play it in this fashion, but Bracken will sometimes attach a strap allowing him to wear the dulcimer around his neck and play standing up – like Jack Everdeen did, now and again. It makes the performance a little more portable but unless you’re versatile enough to play underhand, you’re constantly tipping your face down, which compromises projection in singing.

I wonder what ultimately happened to Jack’s dulcimer. He sold it some twenty years ago to buy Alyssum’s wedding ring, or so the story goes, but whenever a performance was called for, someone always rustled up a stringed instrument to put into his hands, be it a dulcimer, mandolin, or even a banjo. Simon and Swannee Wilhearn were particular fans and will have lent him both of the instruments their children are currently holding, which I find deliciously ironic, but it suddenly, keenly bothers me that he gave up his beloved dulcimer for his bride and neither of his daughters ever got to learn – or even _see_ – it. They’d been too busy surviving after his death to even think about music, but Katniss is safe and healthy and well taken care of now, with time – indeed, a very _room_ – for hobbies, but no instruments to speak of.

Whoever ended up with Jack’s dulcimer would clearly recognize it as a treasure, and therefore it’s still intact and in existence somewhere in Twelve. I resolve here and now to find it and buy it back for Katniss, so she can have that priceless piece of her father and, if she wishes, learn to play it herself.

And then the Wilhearns begin their song and my heart hurts too much to let me think about anything else.

Columbine will never be as beautiful as Katniss, nor is her voice a true rival, but Katniss has never made an exhibition of her looks or her talents, and at this moment, the stunning Seam girl seated at center stage and singing to her dulcimer is a living fairy tale that no man or boy in Twelve can possibly resist. Her voice and Bracken’s weave together in a hushed harmony that makes you lean forward in your seat, as though they’re singing only for each other, their deft hands plucking and strumming without almost thoughtless ease:

 _A-rovin' on a winter's night_  
_And drinkin' good old wine,_  
_And thinkin' about my own true love,  
_ _He holds this heart of mine._

 _My love is like a budded rose,_  
_That blooms in the month of June._  
_He’s like some music instrument,  
_ _That's just been lately tuned._

They insert an instrumental interlude at this point and I tear my gaze free, looking out into the audience for respite, but there’s only an endless sea of rapt faces, both olive-skinned and fair, gazing up at the siblings. I’m about to turn my attention to my hands in my lap for the remainder of the song when I spot an unlikely pair in the very back row of the hall and give a muffled squeak.

It’s Jack and Alys Everdeen – or rather, so like them as to momentarily stop my heart. At the end of the row sits a Merchant woman in a high-collared violet dress, her pale hair braided round her head, leaning over to say something to the Seam man, tall even in a folding chair, seated beside her. It’s impossible to make out either’s features clearly at this distance but his straight dark hair brushes his jaw when he turns toward her to reply and the lower half of his face is shadowed by a budding growth of whiskers, broken momentarily by a flash of teeth as he smiles.

The back row of the hall is kept empty during assemblies for any Justice Building staff who’d like to sit in, the rare Capitol visitor, and the almost rarer parents who are able to leave their work mid-morning to watch the performances. My eyes move eagerly past the strange pair, hoping to spot my father further down the line, when my heart gives a cold, excruciating lurch of realization and drags my gaze back to them.

Even at this distance, the pretty Merchant woman is unmistakably my mother, never mind I can’t remember the last time, excepting this week, that I saw her in public. And unlikely – no, _impossible_ – as it is, there’s only one Seam man who’s even _remotely_ connected to the mayor’s wife, and I haven’t seen him out of a cap since October – or seen him, _period_ , in enough days for him to have made a start on a beard.

The singing resumes with a solo verse from Bracken, addressing his sister in a gentle, merry voice:

 _Who's gonna shoe your pretty little foot?_  
_And who's gonna glove your hand?_  
_And who will kiss your ruby lips,  
_ _And who will be your man?_

Columbine responds huskily, her eyes never leaving the audience:

 _Papa will shoe my little foot,_  
_And Mama will glove my hand_  
_And you will kiss my ruby lips,  
_ _And you will be my man._

And I realize: Gale is here because _she invited him_. Columbine has surely taken pains to ensure he’ll show up anywhere she’s due to perform, but this is still New Year’s week and he’s supposed to go to the woods with me in two days – and she knew she’d be singing this particular piece. What better way to ensure she has his attention than to banish the mayor’s colorless daughter from the stage, literally take over my seat, and woo him with a Seam-cherished love song?

Bracken joins her on the next verse in his soft subtle harmonies but I barely hear the words – or rather, I can barely pick out the Wilhearns’ voices over the clamor of my breaking heart, sobbing the next verse from memory: 

 _I’ll love you till the sea runs dry,_  
_And rocks melt with the sun._  
_And I will love you till the day I die…  
_ _My only one._

It appears that Miss Farlow was right and my heart _was_ in danger after all.

 _For pity’s sake,_ my head admonishes, _none of this is a surprise, and it doesn’t change anything. Gale needs a hunting partner and for whatever reason he agrees that should be you. You don’t want him for a sweetheart anyway, so where’s the harm? If he has Columbine’s arms and lips to come home to he’s less likely to flirt with you, so this can only make things better._

This, of course, is all quite true, but it does nothing to allay the heartache, and I stare down at my hands in my lap for the remainder of the song, trying to think of a better way to end the program than the piano pieces I’ve prepared. There are over ten minutes remaining in which I can effectively play whatever I like, but Gale will find _The Seasons_ as foolish and worthless as my sweet-shop heritage. I could make up some variations on the festive songs performed earlier, turning them into something like a piano solo, or I could lean over and ask Miss Farlow if we can end with more group singing instead, but my mother is here too – the first time she’s ever come to an assembly in my life – and that calls for much more than accompaniment or a few feeble variations on previous tunes.

The Wilhearns end their song to thunderous applause and Columbine rises gracefully to bow with her brother, then Bracken replaces the stool with a quick apologetic glance in my direction – he understands, at least in part – and there’s nothing for it but to resume my seat at the piano.

I didn’t bring my music for _The Seasons_ , knowing today’s selections by heart, so when I take my seat the primer is still open to the last song I played from it: “I Gave My Love a Cherry.” Except it’s not the only song to use that melody, and there’s a terrible, irresistible urge coming over me.

After all, no one listens to my solo set anyway – I can already hear the anticipant silence crumbling away into dozens of whispered conversations – and the only person here who might care two pins both knows and loves the alternate lyrics.

I don’t have a Katniss voice, or a Columbine voice, or even an Alyssum and Prim voice; I’ve never sung on my own outside of family parties and I’m not entirely certain what my voice will sound like when it comes out. But my range is respectable, my pitch is excellent, and most importantly at the moment: I keep a library of songs in my head.

I devise an introduction with cold but steady fingers and clear my throat before stepping off the precipice: 

 _You ask how much I need you, must I explain?_  
_I need you, oh my darling, like roses need rain._  
_You ask how long I'll love you; I'll tell you true:  
_ _Until the twelfth of never, I'll still be loving you._

My voice is limber from the group singing, making the higher intervals easier to land, but it’s far too strong, too bright; my diction too clear. There’s no chance the back row of the hall hasn’t heard every last syllable. 

I remind myself that I’m singing for my mother, not the angry young man who surely left the moment Columbine’s song was finished, never mind I’m thinking of nothing but him as each tender word leaves my lips:

 _I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom;_  
_I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume._  
_I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme,_  
_Until the twelfth of never and that's a long, long time.  
_ _Until the twelfth of never and that's a long, long time._

The last notes fade away to a breathless sort of silence, as though the students aren’t sure whether to applaud or not, and then a pair of hands near the front – Jude or maybe Prim, I daren’t turn to look – eagerly leads the charge in emphatic clapping and the rest follow suit, like a downpour on the thinnest of tin roofs, here and there punctuated by whistles and inarticulate exclamations.

They clap for my piano pieces, of course, but it always feels like a passive response; by rote, almost, not the way they applaud their classmates, no matter how terribly they perform. But this is altogether different. This applause is enthusiastic, eager; excited, even – and it’s taking a long time to die down. It’s as though something new and truly unexpected happened in this place for the first time in living memory and the secondary student body – the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds of District Twelve, with only poverty, hunger, and an imminent Quarter Quell lying ahead of them – are clinging to that progress, or hope thereof, with both hands

“Sing another!” cries a young man over the din – this time it’s unmistakably Jude – and I turn very slightly to face the audience, keeping my gaze high and unfocused, and declare loudly through my blush: “And now we conclude this assembly with three piano solos representing the seasons of autumn and winter.”

A small sad sound sweeps the room – a disappointed sigh? – and we return to our expected roles: the students to somewhat attentive silence and I to my solo Tchaikovsky set. Each piece wins a respectable measure of applause but nothing like that for the piece I sang, and I put it down to an acknowledgement of raw nerve. Not only did the quiet mayor’s daughter sing in public before the entire secondary school, but she did so right after Columbine Wilhearn’s magnificent showpiece.

 _It’s a pity I sent Briony to the Hob on my behalf,_ I think madly, halfway through “The Hunt.” _I should have gone myself –_ after this, I know I _could_ have _– and taken my pick of the clothing there._

My set concluded, Miss Farlow thanks us all for participating – “and Madge Undersee most particularly,” she adds with a sweeping gesture at the piano and a genuine smile – then she dismisses the students for lunch. I busy myself needlessly at the piano till the hall is nearly empty then, reluctant as though I’m pulling off a bandage, I let my gaze drift to the back row. My mother is waiting for me there and waves when she catches my eye, but the seat beside her is empty.

Well, I expected no less.

I hurry back to meet her, because her presence here is far more remarkable than Gale Hawthorne’s, and gasp to find her teary-eyed and wearing an expression that reads at once sorrowful and proud. “What’s happened?” I exclaim, taking her hands as much for my own reassurance as hers. “Is it Dad?”

 _Did I manage to anger them?_ I add silently, swallowing back my fear. _Will we all suffer because I wanted to offer up a love song too?_

She shakes her head and draws me into her arms, and she’s so warm and lovely and smells so wonderfully of lavender soap and lilac water that I melt against her like a weary child. “Oh petal, there’s nothing wrong in all the world,” she whispers against my hair, stroking my back with one delicate hand. “I’m so sorry for my maudlin appearance,” she soothes. “It was just – you reminded me so much of Maysi up there.”

I open my mouth to apologize but the words die in my throat, because neither Aunt Maysilee nor my mother was ever especially skilled at music, nor interested in creating it. “But…Maysi didn’t play, Mom,” I puzzle gently. “She…she quit piano because the lessons bored her–”

“Maysi played as well at sixteen as your father does now,” she murmurs, drawing back a little to cradle my face in her hands. “She was bored because she was advancing quicker than your gran could teach her, and she knew I was in love with Myron. So she stepped back.”

“But…why on earth would you lie about something like that?” I sputter, as stunned as if my mother had punched me in the gut. All my life I’ve envisioned Aunt Maysilee as a sullen music student, scowling through her lessons and kicking the piano with her high-buckled shoes till her parents finally let her quit or Grandma Annalise sent her off, not a prodigy to rival a boy who was veritably raised at the piano.

“You know why,” she reminds me softly, tracing my cheek with one finger, and no more needs to be said. “And it wasn’t wholly a lie; she really _was_ bored with her lessons, just…not with music.”

“And with Dad?” I press delicately, fairly certain I know the answer, and she laughs.

“Maysi was a blazing streak of life,” she recalls fondly, “and your father liked piano technique exercises and diagramming sentences.”

“But he was still handsomer than Dewey Cartwright,” I counter, daring to be impish.

“Dewey put up with Maysi,” she replies, her eyes dancing. “And he was sweet as spun sugar; all the Cartwrights are, if a little doughy in the middle. But give her another summer and I wouldn’t have been surprised if –”

She breaks off sharply and something closes behind her eyes, like a door slamming shut, and I know it’s because we were treading too close to the pain – closer than we’ve ever come before. “Seam boy,” she says after a moment, faintly. “Maysi would have loved a Seam sweetheart. She knew Jack liked Alys before I did and could never understand why she didn’t reciprocate, and if she – under different circumstances,” she amends with visible control, “I think she’d have gone off to the Hob and carried home a miner, like Rooba.”

I wonder for the first time how much I truly know about Aunt Maysilee’s Games. The subject is utterly forbidden at home, both officially and unofficially, but I’ve seen a few pictures from the Tribute Parade as well as the interviews, and Haymitch Abernathy was a devastatingly attractive young man. Almost as good-looking as Gale with twice the snark and arrogance, and all at once it occurs to me that I may not have been the first Donner girl to fall unwittingly for a sharp-edged, angry Seam boy.

My mother brought a picnic hamper for our lunch, and I carry it for her as we make our way down to the lunchroom. “So: no Dad?” I guess.

“I stopped there on my way over, but he was stuck fast in committee,” she answers ruefully. “I was hoping he could at least catch the end. He’ll be heartbroken to have missed your debut.”

“It wasn’t a debut,” I insist, never mind my cheeks are burning. “The singing was…just some kind of fluke. And you still managed to find someone to sit with,” I remind her pointedly.

“Oho!” she chuckles with unmistakable relish. “I was beginning to think you hadn’t noticed.”

“ _Well?_ ” I press when, after several moments, no further explanation is forthcoming, but she shakes her head.

“Let’s wait to get settled,” she says. “It’s little enough of a story but it’ll be best savored over coffee and sandwiches.”

I’m surprised but grateful at the lack of interruptions as we wind our way to my usual table. Classmates typically exchange quick compliments in passing after the assembly but no one even approaches me today, most likely due to the presence of my mother, who most of them won’t even recognize. Not to mention, rare as it is to see a parent at the school, they may assume she’s a new teacher or even, elegantly as she’s dressed, a Capitol representative of some kind.

She unpacks the hamper, gracefully spreading a square of festive calico for a tablecloth and arranging a plate of cold roast beef sandwiches, a bowl of tossed salad greens, and three miniature goat cheese and apple tarts into a pretty tableau, but I recognize stalling when I see it, even if it’s uncharacteristic behavior from my mother.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” I warn, but playfully, and her eyes glint up at me as she patiently pours us each a steaming cup of coffee from a tall flask and adds precise, generous measures of cream and honey to both.

“There’s not so very much to tell,” she begins, nonchalant as you please, as she takes a seat opposite me. “I came for the program, like I said I would, and he was there when I arrived.”

“You got there early?” I confirm, struggling to temper the voracity in my voice.

“Of course,” she replies, then pauses for a lingering sip of coffee, grinning with her eyes over the cup.

“ _How_ early?” I croak, abruptly recalling my conversation with Miss Farlow before the students arrived. I can’t decide whether Gale or my mother would have been the worse audience for that exchange, but either way it can mean no good for me.

“Just before the kids started coming in,” she says. “You were running through the songs on your own.”

Which means if anyone overheard us, it was Gale. As awful as our words of pregnancy and seduction must have sounded, most damning of all was my final remark: _My heart is in absolutely no danger of being stolen by Gale Hawthorne._

I close my eyes at the recollection and an echoing pain beneath my ribs. A public love song, however indirectly presented, is meaningless when they’ve heard what you say about them in private.

“He was sitting in the back row already,” she adds, frowning slightly at my expression, and reaches through our picnic to lay a hand on mine. “It looked like he’d been there for a bit.”

I shake off the misery of being overheard – and, inevitably, _mis_ heard – by the boy I love to respond to something far more startling. “And _you sat by him?_ ” I exclaim, aghast.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve stood three inches away from an attractive young man?” she rejoins wryly. “It was as much a matter of my knees giving out than any active decision on my part.”

A perverse giggle bubbles up in my throat. In all likelihood, my mother hasn’t been within an arm's length of _any_ young man – not counting the annual Victor’s dinner, at which her attendance is compulsory and far too painful for her to appreciate anything but the quiet darkness of her bedroom afterward – since Aunt Maysilee died, and Gale is a virile specimen. I wonder whether it was the sight or scent of him that affected her more strongly.

“I didn’t think he knew who I was at first,” she goes on. “I asked if I could sit by him and he sort of shrugged indifference. He was watching you rather intently,” she adds in a leading tone, “and I don’t think he cared to be interrupted.”

 _He was waiting for Columbine and watching for insult fodder in the meantime,_ I translate silently, but aloud I say only, “I don’t expect he _ever_ cares to be interrupted, or have an unexpected person in his proximity.”

“About halfway through the program he murmured, ‘Does she know she’s that good?’” she reveals with a smile. “I assumed he was talking to himself, but then I felt him looking at me and realized he must have recognized me as your mother. So I answered that you truly don’t have a clue, and never have,” she says with tender frankness. “That you see your playing as ‘solid’ or ‘proficient,’ not ‘impressive’ or ‘beautiful.’”

“Gale Hawthorne doesn’t know two pins about music and he cares even less,” I retort through a rising blush. It’s unsettling how well my mother knows me for having dwelt all these years on the outermost fringe of my life and galling that Gale could have guessed such a personal thing from our fleeting interactions. “Anyway, I know he only came to see Columbine,” I tell her, “so you can dispense with trying to make something out of nothing. Maybe you misheard and what he actually said was, ‘Does she really think she’s that good?’” I suggest dryly.

“Wrong on all counts,” she replies, her eyes mirthful. “But since you clearly put no stock in my perceptions, I’ll give you the bare facts. His face was none too pleased when you left center stage to the Wilhearns, and for the majority of their duet he was watching _you_. That was the first you even looked in our direction,” she admonishes, but gently, “and I was certain the pair of you would finally make eye contact. You looked startled and happy for a half second when you saw us, then you looked away and…I thought you were about to cry,” she murmurs, squeezing my hand. “Did it upset you so much, to see him there?”

“You said something to him,” I evade firmly. “You said something during Columbine’s song and he answered you and _smiled_. I would’ve thought a smile would crack that face,” I remark.

“Oh, petal,” she sighs, but it sounds dangerously close to a chuckle. “I said that Columbine made a pretty picture up there – which we all know she did – and he replied that Seam folk have no need for ornaments, unless they’re the sort that prove useful now and again.”

I eye her merry countenance with a mixture of disbelief and horror. “You _baited_ him?” I hiss. “Were you fishing for a compliment on my behalf?”

“The compliment was inherent,” she replies. “After that he didn’t stop looking at you till the program was over and done with, and even then he lingered at the back of the hall, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.”

“And you didn’t invite him to stay for lunch?” I mock.

“The thought crossed my mind,” she admits, unoffended, “but the first time the pair of you sit down together, I want it to be in the parlor with a roaring fire in the grate, a simmer-pot of hot chocolate to hand, and you at the piano, playing nocturnes in a dark velvet gown.”

“ _Mom!_ ” I groan, never mind that the scene she’s just painted will probably revisit me in the twilight hours very soon, and in decadent sensuous detail, courtesy of Alyssum Everdeen’s lavender lozenges.

“Anyway, don’t you want to know what he thought of your beautiful singing?” she presses, stealing my hand for a quick impish kiss to the knuckles.

“I didn’t realize you were privy to Gale Hawthorne’s innermost thoughts,” I answer with feigned disinterest, never mind I’m trembling to my very bones.

“He settled back in his chair, expecting a solo piano set like always,” she says, “and then you sang two notes and his entire body jolted as though he’d been shocked. He sat forward, eyes narrowed as though he couldn’t believe what they were telling him, and his jaw slacked a little as he just stared and stared at you. He was _enraptured_ , petal,” she whispers.

“He was gobsmacked,” I correct her, and wish the admission didn’t hurt so much or that I could even pretend to be sorry I’d missed the expression this time. “Dumbfounded that I have any kind of singing voice, or maybe that I was nervy enough to make a show of it for the first time after Columbine’s spectacular performance.”

“Dumbfounded, yes,” she concedes quietly. “And as much by your lovely voice as by the lovely song you chose to sing.”

“I can’t tell him,” I choke out, the words leaving me like a small cry of pain. “I can’t ever, _ever_ tell him, Mom, and there she was, like some fairytale princess on her throne, beckoning him to sweep her up and…and the song just fell out of me,” I insist, hoping to convince myself as much as her. “The music was still out on the piano when I got back – you know that – and I remembered the other lyrics and…it just _happened._

“Did he guess?” I whisper, considering this for the first time, and she shakes her head.

“Like everyone else in that hall, he knew immediately that your song choice was intentional and directed at some boy,” she murmurs sadly, stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. “But like someone else I know, it never once occurred to him that he might be the one.”

“My lady Madeline – and…my lady Madeline!” Jude declares, sweeping up on my side of the table with an expression stuck halfway between delight and utter shock at the presence of my mother. “Please forgive the informality, Madam Undersee,” he begs with a modest bow in her direction. “I merely wished to inform your lovely daughter that I have never in all my days been so pleased to be upstaged.”

“There was nothing inferior about your performance, Mr. Tolliver,” she replies, stealing away her hand to shake his. “Nor with your cousin’s,” she adds in a carrying voice, peering around him. “Wherever he might be hiding.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” mutters Luka as he jogs up beside Jude. “I was blindsided at the assembly, Mrs. Undersee, and ask you not to judge my performance too unkindly. Had I known your daughter meant to honor us with a rendering of the same tune, I would have stayed in my seat,” he adds in an unexpectedly tender voice, smiling down at me.

“Come by tomorrow, if you can,” I tell him. “There’s something I want to give you.”

“And everyone’s concerned about _my_ behavior?” Jude wonders, his shock at last giving way to mischief. “Watch yourself, cousin,” he cautions. “Her sweetheart is a jealous man, and surely more so after today.

“Tell the truth, I didn’t think he’d show,” he remarks. “I promised it would be worth his while, but I had no idea what marvels _truly_ lay in store.”

Before I can process, let alone respond to this piece of news, Jude takes my face in his hands and bends to press a sound kiss between my brows. “ _Magnificent,_ Madeline,” he murmurs. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

“Any more of that and my husband will come ‘round to ask about your intentions,” my mother warns from across the table, but her lips are twitching at the corners with the smile that’s already reached her eyes. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” she tells Luka, “and your cousin is welcome to accompany you if he wishes, so long as he leaves his kisses in the foyer.”

She gives Jude a playful wink and I consider that allowing her into the heart of a school chock-full of young men might in fact have been a very bad idea.

The cousins depart with gracious farewells and my mother turns to me with a grin that could rival Prim’s. “Well, what do you think of _that_?” she asks.

“I think it was a mistake to let you out of the house,” I answer dryly, refusing to rise to the bait. “Dad isn’t the handsomest man anymore, and proximity to all these teenage boys is turning you into an addlepated flirt.”

“I mean about Gale and you know it,” she says. “It changes everything if he came at Jude’s behest.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It means he came to see a fool made of Luka Mellark, and Columbine’s serenade was just a lovely bonus.”

“Jude clearly adores you,” she counters, “which merits an entire conversation in itself, and yet, as you say, he seems singularly invested in the prospect of you and Gale. Therefore, if he encouraged Gale to attend this assembly – and make no mistake: your lover sacrificed half a day’s work to be here – t’was for your sake, and yours alone,” she concludes triumphantly.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I reply, even as warm blood seeps up into my cheeks. “Gale would never sacrifice half a day’s earnings in the dead of winter just to sit and listen to me accompany a music assembly.”

“Where else could he see you prettily attired and playing piano?” she insists, her conviction as unwavering as her smile. “I loved a musician myself at your age, you may recall, and one devises all manner of schemes in the hope of catching one’s beloved at the piano.”

“If he appears in the parlor tomorrow night, I’m moving in with Prim,” I tell her smartly.

“If he appears at Saturday night dinner, you’ll have bigger problems than that,” she answers, but her perpetual dread of that weekly Capitol invasion is nowhere to be found in her merry eyes or impish manner. “That said, once you’re courting properly, he may well be _required_ to attend,” she realizes. “In which case it may be wise to ease him in as soon as can be managed.”

“And do you really think,” I hiss under my breath, “that _Gale Hawthorne_ will sit placidly at a table alongside Cray and Dad’s Capitol cohorts, passing the butter and salt as nice as you please?”

She smiles, a hard, canny, daring sort of expression, the likes of which I’ve never seen on her face before. “On the contrary,” she murmurs. “I think he’ll do anything _but_.”

I drop my gaze and shake my head, perplexed and more than a little frightened by her words. My mother has never challenged the regime that effectively slaughtered her twin sister, but I suspect she’d throw herself body and soul into any rebellion with half a shot at success, and I don’t have to be Gale’s confidante to know that he’s boiling for a chance – _any_ chance – to strike back at the Capitol.

Her sitting beside Gale at the assembly suddenly feels calculated, dangerous, even seditious. “Mom, _don’t_ ,” I whisper, looking up at her with the imploring eyes of a frightened child. “I couldn’t bear it if…either one of you,” I finish in a small voice, and she takes my hand in both of hers.

“Never fear, petal,” she soothes, “nothing’s going to happen,” but the way she says _nothing_ sounds like it’s something very important indeed.

I assess our perimeter with a swift subtle glance and ask, softer still: “Mom…who’s Laurel Everdeen?”

She raises her brows at the question but her expression holds curiosity only, not surprise. “Jack’s little sister,” she says, as though this is mere point of fact and not secret in the slightest. “Katniss’s aunt, as would have been. His mother went into labor early, at the shock of his father dropping dead in the mines, and lost both husband and baby in one day.”

“Then why is her name familiar to me?” I press, keeping my voice low just the same.

My mother shrugs. “She’s a ghost,” she replies. “All the Everdeens are, really – drifting in and out of people’s dreams and memories, long gone though they are. It’s almost like none of them really died.”

This is so near yesterday’s wild hare of a notion that I start in my seat, eyeing her sharply, but there’s no conspiracy or suggestion in her expression, just a sad sort of wistfulness for the loss of the fairytale presence that was the Everdeens in Twelve. The gentle toymaker and his cougar-eyed huntress, their fairy-singer son and his mysterious little sister, snuffed before her life had scarce begun, who might’ve been all of that and more besides.

 _Even Katniss is effectively lost to us,_ I think. Not to death, of course, and certainly not forever, but she too was swept up and borne beyond our reach, as though meant for some better life than Twelve could offer.

I wonder for the first time if I could reach Peeta’s house on foot – break from Gale in the woods early some Sunday to cross the frozen lake in the tracks of pony and sleigh – and what I might find when I get there.

“Well, green eyes _are_ rather memorable in a place like this,” I venture, light as one fingertip, and her canny smile returns, albeit softer than before, as in an unspoken shared secret.

“One can’t help but wonder where you’ve seen them before,” she remarks, and holds my gaze for an extra half-second before releasing my hand and turning her attention to our meal.

I doubt my mother has lingered in any part of the Justice Building since the last moments she spent with her sister after the Quarter Quell Reaping, but she clearly remembers Ashpet Everdeen, and the answer to that particular riddle lies in plain sight for anyone with eyes to see. It’s downright obvious once you think of it, and yet somehow I doubt Katniss has ever known.

“I don’t suppose you know what happened to Jack Everdeen’s dulcimer?” I cast out casually, determined to glean every last nugget of knowledge from this lucid and forthcoming version of my mother before she inevitably retreats to the silent darkness of her rooms, and she raises her eyes over a forkful of salad greens.

“He sold it to buy Alys’s wedding ring,” she confirms, “but even she never knew where it ended up, or she’d have found a way to buy it back for him. Instruments – especially fine ones – are scarce in these parts and Jack was admired for his music, so I surmise it does not currently belong to a musician, or they’d have acknowledged it as Jack’s long since, if only as a point of pride.”

I frown in defeat. “Which means it might well have been destroyed for kindling –”

“Or ended up in the hands of someone who admires Jack but doesn’t play themselves,” she posits with a wink. “Rooba was mad about him, you know, and she could well afford such a keepsake. Do you plan to learn it,” she wonders playfully, “so you can further show up Columbine at the next assembly?”

I smile dryly but at my own conclusion, which is half a degree off from hers but could not have been reached without her insights. “I want it for Katniss,” I clarify. “She should have her father’s dulcimer and learn to play it if she wants.”

“Best start pooling your pocket money, then,” she teases. “And hunting for deer. That might be the toughest trade you’ll ever make.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” I answer gravely, and wonder how on earth I’ll even broach the subject, let alone propose a trade.

Because if, as I suspect, Raisa Mellark is the present owner of Jack Everdeen’s dulcimer, there’s surely nothing on this earth that can entice it from her hands.

Our meal progresses without further discussion or interruption until two bites into the cheese and apple tarts, when my father rushes up to the table to present a tiny bakery box. “I’ve just got time to leave cake and kisses,” he laments, bending to hug me about the shoulders and kiss my cheek. “But I insist you recount every detail over cordials in the parlor tonight – and that means _you,_ Maddi,” he clarifies, turning to plant a kiss in my mother’s elegant coiffure. “I don’t trust the magpie at present.”

“The magpie might surprise you,” my mother murmurs, catching his hand at her shoulder. “They’re not generally accounted sweet singers, but this one sang the loveliest tune I’ve heard in time out of mind.”

The mayor of Twelve straightens with a jolt, his eyes wide in disbelief and something that might be rapture. “Madge _sang_?” he breathes.

“A love song,” my mother confirms, and he clasps a hand to his heart in what doesn’t quite look like mock-theatrics.

“There’s more,” she entices with a wicked smile in her eyes, “ _much_ more,” but he shakes his head in near-desperate refusal.

“No more,” he begs. “I’ve hours of committee to weather with a mindful of my beautiful wife by daylight, and if you tell me another word about Madge’s performance I’ll surely be done for. Who knows what I’ll unwittingly sign off on?”

“Gale Hawthorne’s housing, one hopes,” my mother remarks lightly, and he grins like a fool.

“That’s all squared away,” he replies, making something jolt hard in my chest. “It’ll take an excessive number of days to draw up the papers and issue notice, of course, but Hawthorne should be under his new roof before the end of the month.”

“And which new roof might that be?” I interject and don’t bother to hide the tremor – half panic, half foolish, dizzying elation – in my voice. “Dad, you’ve never put him over the barber shop?” I don’t even want to imagine how Gale will react to being assigned a Merchant residence, especially if he thinks I had anything to do with it, but at the same time I’m almost overcome by the prospect of such proximity.

My father meets my desperate gaze with a grave frown, though his eyes are alight with mischief. “That is a matter between the Justice Building and an unmarried District citizen, Miss Undersee,” he admonishes with downright gleeful mock-severity. “Should you choose to marry this man, you would then become privy to such information, but until such time, the matter remains confidential.”

“Shall I walk you back to work?” my mother asks him, half-rising from her seat. “After all, I’m married to the mayor of District Twelve, and as such am privy to certain information that does not concern unattached female citizens.”

My father glances between us, his merriment faltering slightly as he considers whether to walk back to his office in the company of his beautiful, so long sequestered wife, exchanging news about the man with whom their only daughter fell, both unwillingly and unwittingly, in love, or to keep his mind on district matters for the remainder of the afternoon and leave my mother in my company for the last few minutes of this admittedly precious mealtime.

“Dad needs lunch too,” I answer for them both and stand to tuck the remains of our meal back into the hamper. “You can discuss my trousseau on the way if you like,” I add wryly, wrapping the last sandwich in a napkin and pressing it into my father’s hands.

“You _sang_ , magpie,” he murmurs. “Sang to an assembly-roomful of people whose good opinion you don’t care two pins for. Why?”

“Because I love him,” I answer, feeling weary and old as dust. “Because I love him to the marrow of my bones, just like every other girl except for the Everdeen ones, and I couldn’t say it with Tchaikovsky.”

“I’ll teach you new Tchaikovsky tonight,” he promises, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You might be surprised.”

My mother kisses me as well, with an apologetic smile, but I don’t begrudge her departure, nor am I especially bothered that they intend to gossip like teenagers about me and Gale for the remainder of Dad’s tiny stolen lunch break. They surely haven’t had opportunity – or cause – to talk like this since before I was born, if not longer still, and I sit down alone with my tiny cake: a dense square rich with apple and pumpkin, with a buttery ginger icing and sprinkles of caramelized sugar.

A few students pass by with brief compliments on my performance – “Nicely done, Madge,” and the like – nothing beyond what I typically hear after accompanying an assembly, until Bracken Wilhearn stops beside my chair.

“You have a beautiful voice, Miss Undersee,” he says in his own husky tenor, ducking his head in an oddly bashful gesture. “If you wanted, perhaps we – we could do a duet sometime.”

He colors violently at these words and my brows fly up in surprise. I’d assumed Columbine sent him over to be snarky but this confident, consummate young musician is suddenly, and very believably, acting like an enamored swain. “I’m not sure your current partner would care for that,” I point out kindly, and he drops his gaze to his shoes.

“She’s my sister, not my sweetheart,” he replies – downright _mumbles_ – to the floor. “And you’re – forgive the presumption – powerful pretty, Miss Undersee. I-I know you fancy someone else, but…we don’t have to be in love to sing together,” he concludes in a soft, hopeful voice, raising his eyes to the tabletop.

Bracken may be a year younger than me and the brother of my unintended rival, but I’ve never wished so badly that I could just tell my heart who to love. I take one of his slender hands in both of mine and plant a kiss on the knuckles, making him start and meet my gaze with his own, wide-eyed.

Swannee Wilhearn’s son might be even prettier than her daughter, with those long-lashed Seam eyes and his mother’s sweet, sensitive mouth.

“I’ve never been more flattered,” I tell him sincerely, astonished not to be blushing and stammering myself. “And I won’t definitively say no to anything you’re offering. You’re right, I do…like someone,” I admit, a little lamely, “but I’m not crazy enough to assume that’s going to end with a midsummer Toasting, and there are precious few musicians in Twelve as it is. It’s best if we all get along, and well. We could do something for the formal assembly in June, if you want,” I suggest, and he smiles gratefully.

“I’d like that, Miss – Madge,” he answers shyly. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ for asking,” I tell him. “I’ve never sung a duet with a boy before.”

“I’ll come up with something really good,” he says eagerly. “Unless – well, you’ve a much better selection of music to hand –”

“Come up with whatever you like,” I urge him. “I’ll ask my father for suggestions too and we’ll get together soon and pool our ideas.”

“I’d like that,” he says again, his dimples deepening. “Thanks ever so much, Miss…Madge.”

He departs with one last bashful backward glance and Jude practically slides into my lap in his haste to sit beside me. “The only way _that_ ’s happening,” he informs me sternly, “is if all four of us go out for phosphates and you and the boy mysteriously disappear off to your conservatory.”

“For pity’s sake, we’re not courting,” I grumble playfully.

“He’s a firm step up from a Hawthorne,” he points out. “Not to mention, you’d get a wedding gown to make Capitolites swoon.”

“He’s everything Gale isn’t,” I point out in reply, allowing myself to consider it properly for the first time. “Bracken’s a little young just now, but I suspect he’ll make a magnificent husband and father.”

“If you’re marrying any half-Seam lad, it’s going to be me,” Jude quells, so matter-of-factly that I almost giggle. “I have a very fine bed where I’ll keep you like a queen and feed you fresh bacon buns and hot Scotch eggs all the day long.”

“Are you _that_ sore that I kissed his hand?” I venture impishly, and he scowls – genuinely this time, I think. “Whatever for?”

“Bracken’s a good lad,” he admits. “Among the best, really, but if you don’t marry Gale you should marry me.”

This remark is so patently uncontrived and so painfully sincere that my mouth drops open. “What about Columbine?” I wonder.

“You saw her today,” he says, his voice catching slightly. “She’s too grand for the likes of me, with her sights set on someone else entirely. I love her to bits and pieces and I’m not – neither of us, you nor me, is – giving up, but… how about it, Madge?” he asks softly, raising his eyes to mine. “If Gale and Columbine marry other people –”

I shake my head fiercely, bile rising in my throat at the very thought, and Jude lays a hand over mine. “I know,” he soothes, “so much better than you think I do, and I don’t want to think about it either. I’m not asking you to agree to marry me right now or anything like that –”

“You’re just hedging your bet,” I interject in a feeble attempt to tease, but the words come out raspy and thin.

“No,” he says firmly, squeezing my hand. “I’m only asking: if Gale and Columbine both wind up with people other than you and me and we haven’t found anyone else to marry in the meantime, can I court you, Madge?”

I try to smile but something hot and sharp is pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I’m the same invisible girl I was three hours ago, you know,” I tell him in a small voice. “Singing a love song in public doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes _everything_ ,” he insists, “you were never invisible, and I wanted you then too.”

With a shiver at the tenderness of this declaration, I take a moment to envision what he’s offering. Jude is as promising a prospect as Bracken, perhaps even more so, and he comes with all the comforts of a butcher’s household. He’s gentle, merry, and easy on the eye and ear. There’s little doubt in my mind that his honeymoon will consist of tucking up his bride in a deep featherbed and feasting her upon the most decadent foods, in and amongst languid rounds of lovemaking.

After all, if the stories are to be believed, Rooba swept his father straight from their first meeting in the Hob to the depths of her bed, where she nourished the weak young widower on whole roast chickens and her own amorous vigor till he was sufficiently fortified to stand beside her at the Justice Building – and then, likely as not, fed him an entire loaf of bread, toasted bit by bit over their hearth, and a potful of honey besides, before carting him back up to bed.

I don’t want a Brognar but Judah Tolliver is the sweetest of the bunch, and there’s something irresistible about the combination of rich food and a warm bed and an ardent, soft-spoken lover who wants to fill you with sustenance and passion in equal measure.

I would be heartily surprised if Katniss hasn’t succumbed already.

“Okay,” I croak. “If we… if the people we want marry other people, you can court me – but I’m not promising more than that.”

Jude’s smile is like a sunrise, broad and blinding. “I’d be worried for both our sakes if you were,” he assures me. “But would you consider throwing in a clause about not marrying a Wilhearn in the meantime?”

“But Jeremy’s so much prettier than you,” I banter back, but delicately, because Jude’s middle brother – the undeniable offspring of Rooba’s second husband, Jerry Wilhearn – is widely considered the best-looking of the lot, closely resembling his handsome Mellark cousins but with the striking strawberry-blond hair shared by his aunt and sister.

“Jeremy’s making eyes at Greta Brenneman these days,” he dismisses, “hoping he’ll have more luck there than Marko. You could do better.”

I ask my heart why it had to run after an angry young hunter who despises me with every fiber of his being when there’s a butcher-boy holding my hand and declaring that even his handsomest brother is beneath me.

“I don’t expect I will,” I tell him sadly. “But thanks just the same.”

“Oh Madeline,” he sighs. “If that fool breaks your heart I’ll pummel him myself.”

The remainder of the day passes in blessed haste and thankfully, Prim is so caught up by the fact that I sang in the assembly that there’s neither time nor reason to mention the conversations with Bracken and Jude – nor, for that matter, the mortifying exchange with Miss Farlow. Better still, it escaped her notice that Gale attended the assembly, so I can attribute my spontaneous decision to sing to my mother’s unexpected presence and Columbine’s show-stopping performance.

“And a love song!” she squeals, her arm hugging mine as we make our way toward the Square. “You realize, everyone will be dying to guess what mysterious sweetheart made the mayor’s daughter find her voice. You’re like the prince in the cinder-lass tale,” she sighs, “only you know the boy who captured your heart and everyone else is leaving the ball looking for him.”

“Good grief,” I groan, but it’s as endearing as it is surprising to hear Prim gushing about romance and fairy tales like the child she still is in truth. “I guarantee no one cares who I love, Prim, or why I decided to sing a piece today.”

“On the contrary,” she counters. “The school was buzzing like a beehive and no less than three girls asked me directly who your sweetheart is.”

“And what did you tell them?” I ask, halting our steps and squaring to face her in my best attempt at an imposing older sibling.

“That you had yet to freely mention him by name,” she replies with a grin, “but that I have every expectation that you’ll be engaged by your birthday and married by midsummer.”

“Prim!” I hiss, mortified.

“It’s not a lie,” she asserts, her eyes wide and innocent as a doe’s. “You’re as close-lipped about him as can be, and I truly _have_ every expectation of a hasty courtship and a rapid marriage.”

“I liked you better when you were acting your age,” I grouse and set us back on our way.

We part at the bakery, despite impressive and resilient efforts on Prim’s part to bring me home with her in anticipation of Gale’s arrival, and recalling Briony’s errand, I make my way home with an eager step and a light heart. Assemblies, love songs, and unexpected suitors are school-day matters, but it’s the week-end now, and in just over twenty-four hours I will be trekking out to the Seam then onward into the woods, to learn the forbidden trades of hunting and foraging.

I’m so giddy to see what Briony’s brought home, to start piecing together my huntress wardrobe, that I trip up the stairs in stocking-feet and burst into my bedroom, expecting to find a parcel or even a laundry basket of Seam clothes waiting for me, but instead Briony herself is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a bundle far smaller than I’d anticipated and looking utterly distraught.

“Miss Madeline, I’m that sorry –” she begins mournfully.

“Are you all right?” I interrupt and sit beside her, fearful all at once that she might have been harassed or bullied – or worse – in the Hob. Violence is far less common in Twelve these days but I know Briony treads a tricky line, living among the poorest of the Seam while spending the bulk of her time in the mayor’s mansion as a housemaid and veritable paid companion to the mayor’s daughter. A wisp of black hair has escaped her braid and I tuck it behind her ear with a gentle hand, but her resulting wince doesn’t seem to be one of pain.

“I tried, miss,” she attempts again. “I went just as you said, but Caitrin Maybold wouldn’t sell me a scrap. She said if you wanted anything from her stall – forgive me, Miss Madeline,” she interjects, cringing. “She said, 'If the mayor’s girl wants aught from this establishment, she can march down here and buy it herself.' ”

My brows arch at these tidings. Seam folk are fiercely proud and stubborn, as I know only too well, and this can flare up into near-defiance on the most peculiar occasions, but I’ve never heard of one turning down good money for an honest transaction. Not to mention, our Seam staff makes nearly all of the household purchases on our behalf, so there would be nothing out of the ordinary in Briony shopping for me, even in the Hob. “Who’s Caitrin Maybold to me?” I wonder, as the mention of her name feels significant, and Briony blushes miserably.

“Hazelle Hawthorne’s sister, miss,” she admits. “Your lover’s auntie, as would be.”

“Of course she is,” I deadpan, surprised only by the fact that I hadn’t anticipated this. Indeed, in light of my response to Rory seeking an answer on Gale’s behalf, I should have expected nothing less. “But surely there are other clothing stalls?” I venture, and Briony shrugs thinly.

“Half a dozen on any given day, but she’s your best bet,” she says. “Hazelle does mending along with her laundry and brings Merchant cast-offs to sell at her sister’s stall. Not fancy things,” she qualifies quickly. “Sturdy, everyday things that can be patched up or trimmed down or made over. The only other stall with the quality you need for…what you need,” she explains, “would be Swannee Wilhearn’s, and I didn’t reckon that was an option.”

“You reckoned rightly,” I agree and tug lightly at her bundle. “So where did you get these?”

“From home,” she confesses, sheepishly studying her skirts as she surrenders the bundle to my hands. “It’s some things of Bristel’s and mine. I couldn’t come back empty-handed, miss –”

“Nor will you,” I promise, then realize abruptly: “You knew, didn’t you? About the stalls you’d have to visit in order to buy what I wanted. You anticipated this might happen; that’s why you tried to convince me to accept things from your family.”

She shrugs once more. “It’s not my place to contradict your orders, miss, especially if there’s nothing harmful in them,” she remarks. “It was worth a try. New stalls crop up now and again that are worth a look, or sometimes Hazelle covers the stall herself. Believe it or not, she’s less particular about her trades, provided they’re honestly done and no one ends up the worse for it.”

I consider how Gale’s mother has kept four children alive – was Posy even born when her father died? – by hand-washing the underwear of Merchants and their wives, day in and day out. I’m don’t doubt she’d have found an opportunity to poke fun at me had I come shopping at her stall, but she’d never have refused my coins.

Well, hadn’t I been wishing just a few hours ago that I’d gone to purchase the hunting clothes myself?

“Keep the money,” I tell Briony, “all of it, and the clothes.”

“I can’t, miss!” she gasps. “I’ll keep the clothes and thank you for it, and a coin or two for my time if you insist, but it’s little enough trouble walking to the Hob and back, and your folks pay me plenty. I can’t take extra pay for _not_ doing what you asked.”

“On the contrary, you did exactly as I asked, even though you had misgivings,” I remind her. “And it wasn’t your fault in any way that this Caitrin Maybold…” I sigh in a little huff and admit, “Gale tried to be indirect with me and I wouldn’t have it, so it’s no surprise that his kin chose to return the favor when I wanted something. Now, I believe I owe you a new pair of thermals,” I recall, “and some sweaters besides.”

Briony stalwartly refuses to accept anything more than one tiny handful of coins, but I march her to the kitchen and fill her pockets with an orange and a small bundle of peppermint sticks parceled up in paper. I still have every intention of presenting her with a new set of thermals from the mercantile, of course, but that will have to wait till tomorrow – after I get back from the Hob.

I return to my room and open my wardrobe, considering. The last time I went among Seam folk, I tried to blend in as best I could, stuffing my fair hair inside a stocking cap and donning a borrowed old overcoat over my very plainest clothes – everything I could think of to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

_If the mayor’s girl wants aught from this establishment, she can march down here and buy it herself._

“Gauntlet accepted, Mistress Maybold,” I murmur, taking the kitten-soft wool of my finest skirt between two fingers. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter requires worryingly WtM-caliber notes.
> 
> According to Merriam-Webster, spindrift is defined as “sea spray; especially spray blown from waves during a gale.” Thought some of you might appreciate that. ;)
> 
> Somehow Everdeen lore and backstory keeps seeping into Madge's narrative, and I sincerely hope this isn't coming across as too heavy-handed and doesn’t upset the flow of Madge’s own story overmuch. For reasons that this chapter should make clear, Madge’s unique social position enables her to pick up on details that others wouldn’t, and I surmise that she’s cunning enough to start piecing the puzzle together.
> 
> My working headcanon for the Panem anthem uses the tune of “See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes!” from Handel’s _Judas Maccabaeus_ (and _Joshua_ , because Handel’s fun like that :D). The decision may have been slightly influenced by the use of this chorus in the coronation scene from _The Prisoner of Zenda_ (which, incidentally, could be deliciously Gadge in the hands of the right author).
> 
> Ashpet’s German lullaby is Haydn’s famous _Kaiserhymne_ , also known as the _Deutschlandlied_ (the German national anthem) and the Christian hymn “Glorious Things of Thee are Spoken.” I confess to a tiny measure of self-insertion here, as my father, whose parents were German immigrants, used to hum this tune to my sister and me as children, to my nephews when they were first born, and even on occasion to new puppies! It seems to embody “all the feels,” if you will, particularly for someone of German descent, which may or may not relate to Granny Ashpet’s mysterious father…
> 
> On a sidenote, canny Madge also snuck in a mention to something I’ve been struggling for years to decide how/whether to address: the idea of God (and specifically, Christianity) in Panem. While this was not something I had intended to bring up in the When the Mooniverse (it was meant for a few chapters down the line in **True North** , whenever I get back to that fic again), I’m more than willing to see where the story and characters want to take it. For the immediate moment, I’ve made the assumption that Madge is aware of some Biblical stuff through her exposure to music (and possibly literature), at the very least.
> 
> While “A Marshmallow World” is a popular song (written in 1949 by Carl Sigman and Peter DeRose), the sweets-centric lyrics and the fact that it makes no direct references to Christmas or any other holiday made it perfect for a Donner winter tradition. I anticipate that the trio’s repertoire of “sunny songs about sweets – or at least, full of the language thereof” would also include such deliciously saccharine favorites as The McGuire Sisters’ “Sugartime” and The Chordettes’ “Lollipop.”
> 
> “I Gave My Love a Cherry” (also known as “The Riddle Song”) and “The Twelfth of Never” do indeed use the same tune, an English folk song with an Appalachian heritage. I’ve been aching to reference “The Twelfth of Never” in Panem for ages now and assumed it would come up as a Jack Everdeen lullaby - Madge choosing to sing it was as startling to me as to the rest of the cast! I left out the bridge since it doesn’t correspond with the original tune and hope this doesn’t bother fans of the song too much. If all goes to plan, in the next chapter Madge will share the “poignant song…about yearning after a girl with the same name – and one suspects, in a comparable situation – as Luka’s sweetheart” and I really hope it doesn’t induce too many groans.
> 
> The version of “Roving on a Winter's Night” that Columbine and Bracken perform is the Al Petteway and Amy White duet from the album _Winter Tidings_. The lyrics are notoriously difficult to pin down so I transcribed them as best I could from the audio and made a few tiny tweaks. (There are a couple of additional stanzas that Madge does not explicitly mention but which may well have been sung at the assembly, and not quoting them spared me having to explain the references to France and Spain!) I’ve been dying to bring this song into the WtMiverse or even Twelve in general for its Appalachian instrumentation and delicious lyrics, so I was surprisingly grateful for the opportunity provided by a Wilhearn duet!
> 
> Finally, yes, "Jude" is short for “Judah.” :) After I introduced him as “Jude,” it started niggling that I really should have gone with "Judah" and I figured I could sneak it into some other fic in the future (a period AU, perhaps), but an opportunity arose toward the end of this chapter and I absolutely couldn’t resist. I find names/forms of address terribly exciting (ex. when/why do they switch from Mr/Miss to first names), and this fic has a sort of backwards trend of characters going by diminutives and their proper first names serving as a more intimate address, not a more formal one, which I find especially delicious.


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